


Cesc, Lies, & Video Games or: The Unexpected Virtue of Loving Thy Enemy

by guti



Series: The Continuing Adventures of Merseyside's Finest [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: (The character doesn't even have a name so please don't be concerned!!!), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Dark Comedy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Swearing, misogynist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boring version: Detective Jamie Carragher teams up with CPS Prosecutor Gary Neville to investigate a burglary ring.</p><p>The fun version: Carra and Gaz fight, flirt, play Xbox and solve a crime, with special cameo appearances by... everyone under the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cesc, Lies, & Video Games or: The Unexpected Virtue of Loving Thy Enemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jjjat3am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts), [saltstreets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/gifts), [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Cesc, Lies, & Video Games or: The Unexpected Virtue of Loving The Enemy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6140483) by [natalia_lip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalia_lip/pseuds/natalia_lip)



> before i get to my ~apologies~ section, i want to thank some people who've held my hand and encouraged me through this writing process. in particular, [Anemoi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi), [saltstreets](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets), & [jjjat3am](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/jjjat3am) have been essential in the making of this story. but i also want to acknowledge everyone who has fueled this through words of encouragement & through enthusiasm for the carraville ship. if i'd known six months ago that this would basically take over as my OTP, i'd have laughed in your face. and here we are, in the midst of a renaissance. everyone who is keeping this alive, i love you so much and i am so grateful for all the lovely works that are being produced. thank you so much!
> 
> and now to the apologies:
> 
> first of all: massive apologies to fans of liverpool, manchester united, manchester city, chelsea, arsenal, spurs, everton, newcastle, and to everyone else, really. no one is spared a bit of mockery in this and i’m so sorry.
> 
> a special apology to fans of costa & coloccini… they’re not portrayed too favorably here…. as my beloved chelski apologist, [pimpam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam) pointed out ‘your anti-costa bias is showing, ali’. and it is. so, sorry!
> 
> and also, i’m american. my knowledge of the english legal system is limited to stuff that airs on PBS, so i’ve kind of juxtaposed some american cop-drama/police procedural tropes onto it and hoped for the best. 
> 
> oh and also most important note: this fic is set in the same AU as [Osculum Mortis or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Lampreys](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4792337). this fic is a prequel. you need not have read the other fic in order to read this one, but just know that this is part of the same universe, set several years before the other fic.
> 
> and one final thing: there is a murder of an unnamed character, so if you're concerned by the 'minor character death' tag, please rest assured all the lads make it out in one piece!
> 
> and now, without further adieu... my labor of love. enjoy!

It’s stressful work, being a police officer. Between the high pressure to protect and serve the community, there’s loads of paperwork, the burden of having to occasionally testify in court, and of course, the day-to-day nonsense that makes adulthood such a drag. Carra was more or less used to it, by the time he made detective. He thrived under those sorts of stakes, did his best work under the most exhausting of circumstances. But sometimes he needed a break from it all. He’d started out as a kid, relieving the stress of school by playing games like Mario Kart or Yoshi Story, but as an adult he’d moved on to more important, meaningful activities. Every night when he got home, he’d turn on his Xbox, log in, and spend at least an hour playing the latest version of FIFA. 

It was a ritual for him, a way to clear his head, and in theory, calm his mood. It didn’t always work out that way, sometimes he got more worked up over the pixelated players than he rightly should have, but it was therapeutic nonetheless. He especially liked playing endless rounds of derbies, Liverpool and Everton, again and again, so often that he became notable to some other regular players who would routinely join him for games. In particular, he enjoyed the company of three individuals: xXsuckXxitxXspursXx, a quiet but reliable kid, presumably from London (but who could be sure), SparkleSnake92, a chipper teenaged girl from Ontario, and fizzer18, a loud, but entertaining Manc events coordinator who had a penchant for keeping everyone organized and on track. They had themselves a private party chat, which they would drop in and out of whenever they were online.

Stevie used to play with them sometimes, before he and Xabi got too serious, before Xabi moved in. Carra didn’t hold it against him, not really. People grew up. Sometimes they fell in love. Sometimes they fell in love with tricky Spanish lads who chain smoked out back of the station and wore expensive trousers and took trips to museums and rubbish like that. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with museums, but Carra could think of about four dozen things he’d rather do besides spending his off time trying to parse out some sort of meaning in Baroque paintings or whatever it was Xabi liked to do. And all that meant Stevie’s time wasn’t all his to dominate anymore. But he couldn’t really be jealous. After all, they all saw plenty of each other at the station. That’s how they all met anyway. 

It was a Friday night and by some miracle, he had it off. It was an unusual enough occurrence that his regular gaming partners remarked on it as soon as he logged in.

“Well, well!” fizzer18 chortled over the headset. “Look at that! ForeverRed23’s online, mates! And on a Friday, too! How’d you pull that off?”

“No murders in Merseyside tonight, kids,” Carra laughed, adjusting the volume on his television, so as not to disturb the upstairs neighbors. 

“That’s great, Jamie!” SparkleSnake92 chirped as she set up the game. xXsuckXxitxXspursXx made a grunt in agreement, and before long, the four of them were playing yet another Merseyside derby, welcoming to any and all newcomers who might wish to join the fold. Players cycled in and out, most hoping to eventually play something besides Liverpool vs. Everton on repeat and getting tired of the same games again and again. Carra didn’t mind that. He could care less what anyone else wanted to play. Everyone else could fuck off, so long as he got to play Liverpool.

“Got some old friends who want to join us for a round,” fizzer18 said as they finished their third derby of the night.

Carra scoffed. “Fair enough. Get them in here, let’s have a go.”

“Ooh! New people!” SparkleSnake92 giggled. 

“They’re mates of mine from my school days,” fizzer18 warned. “Play nice, won’t you?”

“They’re Mancs, you mean,” Carra snorted dismissively. “One of you’s bad enough, you know. I don’t know if I can take a whole gaggle of you, squawking like that.”

“Does this mean we’re not playing another derby?” SparkleSnake92 asked.

fizzer18 laughed, “No more derbies tonight, kiddo. These guys’ll pick United.”

“Boo,” said xXsuckXxitxXspursXx. 

“Boo,” Carra echoed.

“Let’s be Everton this time!” SparkleSnake92 said.

“Fuck off!” Carra barked, catching himself quickly. “Sorry, kid.”

fizzer18 made some remark about behaving, and then moments later the game was flooded with the sharp, unintelligible ramblings of rowdy, drunken Mancs. It was enough to make Carra’s blood boil.

“Who’ve we got here?” one of them bellowed. “Scousers, eh?”

“Fuck the Scousers!” another hollered.

“Eh! Fuck off!” Carra snapped, unable to help himself. “And watch your filthy mouth. There’s kids in here.”

“Good! Let ‘em see how this sport is really played!” the second Manc, glorygloryxxx69, said, sounding rather smug. “ForeverRed23. Your team’s shite and so are you! Haaaaa!”

“Watch it, all of you!” fizzer18 commanded, and the chat settled down for a moment as they started to pick their sides and positions.

“Bloody Mancs,” Carra muttered, selecting his preferred position, waiting impatiently for the newcomers to pick their sides. A few other random stragglers popped in as well, rounding out the teams.

“Watch your language, Scouser,” one of the Mancs, CowUdder46, chided. “There’s kids in here.”

Growling and annoyed, Carra kept his mouth shut as the match began. Liverpool hosting Manchester United, and there was more than just pride on the line.

It went about as well as could be expected. The Mancs were loud, obnoxious really, and they played dirty football, making poor tackles as they screamed into their microphones. At one point, poor SparkleSnake92 loudly and emphatically explained that she wasn’t from Liverpool, she was from Toronto and that their insults directed at her weren’t especially effective, catching most of them off guard long enough for her to score a beautiful solo goal. Carra cheered loudly for her, as did the others on their team, and for a moment their spirits were bolstered enough that they thought they just might win.

Except they didn’t. United stormed back in the second half, scoring four goals in rapid succession, leaving Carra and fizzer18 and the others stunned.

“That’s what happens when you let a little Canadian play striker!” glorygloryxxx69 said, drunken sneer obvious in his voice. “Hey, girlie, you ever try playing keeper?”

SparkleSnake92 hesitated, “Wh-what does—” 

“You ever handle any balls?” 

“Jesus fuck! Leave her alone, you prick,” Carra hissed into his microphone, more enraged than he’d been all evening. “What the hell is wrong with you, you sick piece of— ” 

“Enough,” CowUdder46 cut him off, taking charge. “Apologize to her. Now.”

“Gaz—”

“Now.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything, love.”

“Don’t call her love,” Carra yelled. “She’s not your love.”

“It’s okay,” SparkleSnake92 whispered.

“No, it’s not,” CowUdder46 said, to Carra’s surprise. “Apologize to her like you mean it.”

“Sorry,” glorygloryxxx69 mumbled.

“Good, now boot him!” Carra said, and again, to his surprise, glorygloryxxx69 was kicked out of the game.

“I’m not going to apologize for him,” said CowUdder46. “That was uncalled for. But I hope you won’t hold it against our team.”

“I won’t,” SparkleSnake92 said. “I’ve already got plenty of reasons to hate United.”

“Atta girl!” Carra laughed, and if he could have ruffled her hair, he would’ve. His consolation prize was the undignified sputtering from CowUdder46’s headset.

“Tell me, Sparkle, what’ve these blokes got that makes a Torontonian like yourself idolize them so? Can’t be the accents. You can’t bloody understand any of them.”

“Hey!” Carra snapped.

“It’s the truth,” CowUdder46 said. “Every fourth word or so, sure. But when you get excited, forget it. Might as well be listening to a bunch of hyenas.”

“Wait a damned minute! You want to talk about gibberish, listen to yourself, mate! You’re like a bloody turkey, gobbling about like you’ve some right to be heard. It’s straight nonsense, is what it is! Gobbling around like you’re owed something, dirty Manc—”

“Hold on!” SparkleSnake92 giggled, “I’ll tell you what Liverpool has. They have five Champions League trophies. And besides that, they’re nice people. My mate here never calls me love or darling because I’m no one’s love or darling.”

There was a predictable amount of laughter from the men in the game while Carra gave a grunt of approval. That’d show that stupid, sexist Manc bastard.

As the night wore on, people came and went, and before long it was just four of them left playing; Carra, fizzer18, xXsuckXxitxXspursXx, and CowUdder46, playing endless rematches of Liverpool and United. And as the night wore on, the insults became more and more frequent, hurled back and forth between Carra and his newfound Manc rival.

“Look at you! Can’t even dribble! Pfft!” “What kind of a clearance was that?” “You call that a cross?” “You’re garbage! Just like your shite team!” “And another missed penalty, surprise, surprise!” “Fuck off! Wanker!” “You fuck off!”

“Would you both shut the fuck up?” xXsuckXxitxXspursXx finally shouted. “Fuck Liverpool and fuck United! Augh!!” And with that, he logged off.

“What’s his problem?” asked CowUdder46.

“You’re acting like shitheads,” fizzer18 said. “Ruining it for everyone. I’m going to bed. Bastards.” And with that, he also logged off, leaving Carra all alone with CowUdder46.

“Well that’s just great,” Carra grumbled. “A total, systematic destruction of the game, utter disrespect, at the hands of Manchester United. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Do you ever listen to yourself?” CowUdder46 spat. “You’re out of your mind, mate.”

“I’m not your mate.”

“You’re not anybody’s mate.”

“Hey! Fuck you!” But it was too late. CowUdder46 had already signed off.

Left alone and honestly stunned, Carra logged off too.

*

“How was your weekend?” Stevie asked on Monday morning. They’d just made it to the station and would be off to their separate departments soon enough. First though, they needed coffee, and so the two of them took their usual spots by the break room coffee maker and watched the morning progress. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.” 

“I haven’t slept in days.” Carra sounded tired, groggy, exhausted and he stared at his cup with lifeless eyes.

“Why’s that? Someone keep you up, eh?” Stevie grinned at him, gave a nudge with his elbow.

“Oh, sod off.” 

He didn’t even have the energy for proper banter. This made Stevie concerned. He studied his friend a moment, trying to discern what exactly had gone wrong. “What’s happened, Carra? Something bad? Is it your family?”

“No. It’s none of your business. Can’t a guy be in a foul mood without you prodding through my life? For fuck’s sake, Gerrard.” He slammed his mug down on the counter and stomped off, nearly trampling the incoming Xabi in the process. “Out of the way, Alonso. Stupid little…” The rest was lost to muttering as Xabi stood there, thoroughly puzzled.

“What’s wrong with him?” He asked, sidling up beside Steven.

“He’s angry.”

“Yes, I gathered. What did you do?”

Steven snorted, shaking his head at his boyfriend. “Nothing! Why’s it always my fault when he’s being nasty?”

“You’re his favorite scapegoat,” Xabi said, helping himself to Carra’s cup. “Besides, he thinks you’ve abandoned him.”

“That’s stupid.” Stevie scoffed, handing Xabi a sugar packet. “I haven’t abandoned anyone.”

Xabi said nothing, he just mixed in the sugar, patted Steven’s shoulder, then glided away, back to the special victim’s unit and hours of hell. Stevie meanwhile made his way back to the gang unit and wondered, every so often, if he’d been a rotten friend to Carra after all. He hadn’t considered it. They spent loads of time together still, had lunch together nearly every day (when he wasn’t busy with Xabi) and they still went out and had beer and watched matches. Sometimes. When he wasn’t doing the same with Xabi.

Huh. Maybe he had abandoned Carra. That would explain quite a bit. After all, as Carra’s best mate, he really ought to know what was bothering him. He didn’t even know if Carra was seeing anyone. He hadn’t been over to Carra’s place in over a month.

That settled it, he resolved. He’d have to be a better friend to Carra. That afternoon, he began an online search for something special for them to do together.

 

*

Truth be told, Carra didn’t really have the time to be heading to Manchester, with mountains of paperwork to go over before he was due to testify in court the next week. But one couldn't exactly decline the invitation to see Liverpool playing at Old Trafford, so he and Stevie made the trek, bundled in their hats and scarves, finding their seats in the visitors’ section.

“This place makes my skin crawl,” Stevie said with a grin, and Carra couldn’t disagree at all. It was true, there was something wholly alarming about the place. “Look at all them poor kids, decked out in that crap. Poor things didn’t even have a chance.” 

Carra snorted, “You know, I’m shocked you didn’t ask Xabi to come instead of me. I’d have thought you’d prefer his company these days.”

Stevie looked at him, stared for a long moment, then shook his head. “I liked spending time with you, Carra. You’re my best mate.”

“I thought he was.”

“No. He’s my boyfriend.”

“There’s a difference, then?”

“Yeah.”

Carra wasn’t sure that there was, since he’d be thoroughly replaced in most best mate activities by that sly Spanish bastard, but whatever. He had Stevie’s attention now, and that was what mattered.

Of course, it would’ve been great to get an away win, too. But you know, one can’t ask for too much all at once.

“Fuck!” Carra yelled as the final whistle blew and Liverpool was left soundly defeated. In the stands all around, those god awful Mancs were singing and shouting and having the time of their lives as the poor visiting players slinked off the pitch.

“I concur,” Stevie said, pulling his jacket around himself as they started the humiliating process of filing out. What a disappointment. He’d almost say it was a waste of good money, too, but the look on Carra’s face when he presented him with the tickets had surely been worth the heartache of losing.

“Let’s get out of here before I hit someone.”

“Right. You don’t mean that.” 

“Sure I do. I’ve had it with these bastards. The next word I hear, I swear I’ll pitch a bottle.”

“Fair enough. You do that. Just don’t get yourself arrested. You don’t have the money for bail, and Xabi’d kill me if I asked him for it. Actually, he’d probably kill you.”

Carra’s face scrunched up at that, eyes narrowing as they trudged toward the nearest exist. So much had changed between them, ever since Xabi came around. It used to be that no matter what, Stevie’d have his back. It wasn’t like that anymore. Now it was ‘Xabi this’ and ‘Xabi that’. Not that they ever got into too much trouble, anyway. They were officers of the law, but it was the principle of it. Steven was his best mate, dammit. He was supposed to have his back. Now it was just Xabi, Xabi, Xabi.

“Fuck off, Liverpool!” Someone shouted from a distance. Carra turned quickly, just in time to get smacked in the face with a half full cup of coke.

“Hey! Fucker!” He yelled back, ready to charge his assailant, only to be caught and held back by Steven. “Let go of me!”

“Easy, mate!”

“You blind? I’ve been assaulted!”

“Easy! Let the security do their job. Let’s go.”

He struggled a little, pulling from Stevie’s grip, but was held firm. He stared at his friend, felt like he didn’t really know him anymore. But then Stevie smirked at him, elbowed him in the gut. “I can’t afford to bail you out, Jamie. I’m a cop. I’m not made of money.” And then Stevie laughed, slung an arm over Carra’s shoulders, and all was forgiven. At least temporarily.

*

“And it’s stained my fucking jacket, can you fucking believe it?”

“That’s so terrible, Jamie!” SparkleSnake92 said, in full sympathy mode. It was getting late, close to midnight, and Carra was still fuming over the state of the day. It had been bloody awful, the only true consolation being that Xabi had some beer waiting for them when they finally made it back to Stevie’s flat. Er, Xabi and Stevie’s flat. Whatever. And now hours later, he was home and still livid, rehashing the entire ordeal to his usual online companions, though the only one who seemed at all moved was SparkleSnake92, dear that she was.

“Sounds like a shitty day all around,” fizzer18 agreed. That was as much condolence as Carra expected from an Everton fan. Typical. 

“Fuck United,” xXsuckXxitxXspursXx said, like a mantra. Jamie made a noise of approval.

And then, out of the blue and totally uninvited, appeared CowUdder46.

“Evening, lads,” CowUdder46 said, cheerful as ever. “And SparkleSnake.”

“Hello,” said SparkleSnake92, shyly.

Carra seethed. Really? On tonight, of all nights? It was almost enough to make him sign off for the evening, leave in a huff. But why should he be the one to leave? He was here first!

“Oh, Gaz. You made it. Terrific.” That was fizzer18, setting them up for another Merseyside derby. “You can be on Liverpool, I guess.”

CowUdder46 snorted a little. “Oh joy. It’s just what I always wanted.”

Carra was in no mood to put up with any bullshit from CowUdder46, not after the day he’d had. He was poised to get confrontational about it, too, if that idiot Manc didn’t watch himself.

“All right then, let’s have a go,” Carra grumbled, and the game began.

It wasn’t long before it all went to hell. It had been Carra’s fault, loathe as he was to admit it. His player made a poor tackle and the resulting penalty put Everton up, and only ten minutes in.

“What the hell was that?!” CowUdder46 gasped. “You’re trying to get sent off?” 

“Aw, blow me,” Carra huffed, watching in despair as xXsuckXxitxXspursXx’s shot soared past their keeper.

“It’s that attitude, that mentality, that stops Liverpool from achieving any sort of victory. Might as well give up if that’s how you feel, mate.”

It was enough to push Carra over the edge. “I’m not your mate!”

“Guys…” SparkleSnake92 said softly, but it was too late.

“I’ve had it! I’m done!” And without any further fanfare, he turned his console off.

*

He was due to testify on Tuesday, so he spent all Monday earnestly preparing for the case. It was simple really, he just needed to give the specifics as the arresting officer in a fairly routine burglary case. It wasn’t even his beat, not even his department. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

A colleague had been telling him that morning about a flyer that had come in, faxed over from Manchester, to be on the look-out for a vehicle, the driver wanted for questioning in connection with some home invasions out there. Carra hadn’t thought much of it, being that he was a junior homicide detective and all, but when he spotted that same vehicle later that same night, he took matters into his own hands. There were two men in the car having a heated argument. That was what caught his eye at first, before he recognized the plates. 

After calling for back-up, he stayed in visual proximity of the car, content to wait for the uniforms to take over. That was until the driver began to assault the passenger. Carra took swift action and took control of the situation, eventually wrestling the driver out of the vehicle and to the ground, placing him under arrest. The passenger would need and receive medical attention. The driver, as it turned out, was wanted for questioning in Manchester and later confessed to the burglaries. The Merseyside officers hailed Carra as a hero. Now all he had to do was tell what happened to the court and he could get back to his regular job.

“Are you nervous?” Xabi asked him, appearing at his desk quite suddenly. Carra nearly jumped in his seat, looking up from the notes he was reviewing. “You look nervous.”

“What? No! Where did you come from? Christ.”

Xabi just smiled and took a seat on Carra’s desk. “Steven says you get nervous before you go to court. So I am asking. Are you nervous?”

“Yeah, well, he’s one to talk. Last time he got called in, he stammered so bad, they had to repeat their questions about a dozen times.” Carra frowned, closing his files. “And who said you could sit there? Use a chair like a regular person, Alonso. Didn’t they raise you proper in… wherever it is you’re from?”

He apparently was too good to respond to that, making himself right at home as he sipped his coffee from a paper cup. “It will be all right. You know what you are doing.”

Carra sighed, wanted to roll his eyes. Instead he stood up and grabbed his coat to leave. “You smell like an ashtray.”

The last thing he heard before the elevator doors closed was Xabi’s stupidly delightful laugh.

 

*

Ever since he was little, all he dreamed about was being a policeman. Sure, he had dreams of football, like every other kid, hell, he even at one point thought he’d make a halfway decent referee, but he knew, deep down, that he wanted to be a real hero. And policemen were real heroes, not like footballers, who’d inevitably let you down. 

Maybe it was all the detective shows he watched, or the funny hats that they wore. He never could quite trace the appeal, but it was there nonetheless. He had a dream and he applied himself. And now, he was living it. Alone, on the wrong side of thirty, with a sad little apartment with a couple of nameless goldfish that he usually remembered to feed, but not always. He was happy though, mostly, and if nothing else he was quite decent at his job. He was a damned professional, and he might be a Scouser, but he was articulate enough to present a good case.

Which was why he didn’t quite understand why it was all falling apart now, half an hour after he gave his testimony. He was sitting away, had been dismissed and was lingering around waiting for a recess, just in case the prosecutors needed anything more from him. He had his phone out, checking the latest news, minding his own business when one of them burst out and spotted him, a look of fury on his face.

“He’s going to walk!” The Manc barrister said, voice a strange mix between a whisper and a scream.

Carra looked up from his spot on bench, an eyebrow cocked as he regarded the man. He was the assistant prosecutor. He’d sat there during the questioning, furiously scribbling notes while his partner performed the examination. They hadn’t really spoken, though they’d been briefly introduced before. Carra couldn’t even recall his name. Dark hair and eyes, mouth set in a wicked scowl. He might be decent looking if it weren’t for that pained look. He might even be handsome, not that Carra was checking him out or anything. “What? How the f— ”

“Your testimony has been deemed inadmissible.”

Carra stood up, aghast. “What do you mean? Why the hell— ”

“It’s been decided that you had no legal right to enter the vehicle, therefor you had no right to arrest the suspect.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Carra said, honestly horrified. “I saw that man being assaulted. An assault in progress. If that’s not a legitimate reason to open the car door, then— ”

“It’s too late. It’s too bloody late. The entire case has fallen apart. Everything that’s come after the arrest will be thrown out, and all of the evidence from the car. The confession is out. All of it, inadmissible.” The prosecutor closed his eyes, sinking down onto the bench beside him. Carra sat down again, grasping for words, left utterly speechless for once in his life. “The rest of the case is circumstantial at best. All because there wasn’t a proper warrant.” 

“That’s not my fault,” Carra said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else. 

The Manc turned to look at him, and for a second, half a damn second, Carra lost his breath and his mind went blank. Slowly, the barrister turned away, looking straight ahead and Carra regained his senses too. “There’s nothing I can do. He won’t even get a slap on the wrist. He’ll walk.”

Carra frowned, “There’s got to be something in there that hasn’t been thought of. Something at one of them break-ins.”

The other man snorted softly and shook his head. “Our detectives here have looked over everything. They haven’t missed any physical evidence.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to look at it all again,” Carra said, a bit defiantly. He wasn’t about to insult the local police department or anything, but. Well, maybe he was. “I’ve got keen eyes. Let me have a go with it.”

The barrister laughed out loud. “Haven’t you got more important work to be doing? Homicide detective from Liverpool, come up to Manchester to pour over a burglary. Surely you’ve got some murders to look into.”

“Listen, our people aren’t the depraved, blood thirsty lunatics you make us out to be,” Carra said, unamused and emphatic. “I can come up on my day off. Won’t even bill you if it means that slimy cunt winds up in jail.”

There was a silence then, as the prosecutor mulled it over. He nodded, tilting his gaze back to Carra, making him feel a little anxious, a little small. “I’ll talk to the department, see what I can do.” Carra nodded, and the barrister added, “At the very least, the offer is appreciated.”

They discussed the strange hypothetical logistics of the situation before exchanging cards and parting ways, with the promise that Carra would hear from the prosecutor’s office by the end of the next day. There were worse ways to get his number. There were also better ways to do it, but that was beside the point.

He didn’t think much more about it that night, until he took his billfold out of his back pocket and the card slipped out again. Gary Neville. That was the Manc’s name. Gary Neville. 

*

“So now you are going to spend your weekends in Manchester? I thought you hated Manchester.” 

Carra stared across the table at Xabi, glaring as he shoveled some slippery noodles into his mouth. Beside him in the booth, Stevie gave a snort as he dipped his egg roll into some bright pink sauce.

“That’s our, Carra, dedicated to his work, Xabs. Ready to set aside his negative feelings all so he can do the right thing. I think it’s right admirable.”

“Sod off.” Carra tried his best not to look indignant as the pair of them smiled and shared one of those schmoopy looks he despised, made doubly ridiculous thanks to the neon pink glow of the take-out menu on the wall above their table. “And for the record, Manchester is a circle of hell. But I’ve got work to do.”

“You have work here, haven’t you?” Xabi asked casually.

“Yeah. That’s why I’m doing it in my off time.”

“Won’t your Xbox friends miss you?” Stevie grinned.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m a professional.”

“That’s our Carra,” Xabi said fondly, and Carra wondered why and how that came to be. He couldn't recall ever consenting to Xabi feeling possessive or protective of him. It’s not like they were especially good mates, not like him and Stevie were. But then again, Stevie-and-Xabi were basically a single unit now. Somehow, without realizing it, he must’ve been absorbed. The thought made him pale, just a little. He didn’t dislike Xabi, but the lines had been drawn. He only wanted to follow them.

He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, well, anyways, I’m off to Manchester on Friday evening and I’ll be round your place on Sunday afternoon, in time to watch the match.”

“How’d you manage to get the entire weekend off?” Stevie asked, mouth full of Chinese food.

“Where will you be staying?” Xabi asked at the same time.

“I pulled rank,” Carra said between bites of pork, revelling a little in Stevie’s disappointment. “And I’ll be staying at that barrister’s place.”

“The Manc one?” Stevie asked.

“Yeah.”

“The same one you fancy?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“What’s this? I did not hear of this.”

“Shut up.”

“Carra’s hot for the prosecutor.”

“What the fuck did I just say?”

“Carra, you did not mention this before.”

“Xabi, I swear to Christ— ”

Carra was prepared to go off on both of them, but they were too busy laughing loudly, feeding off each other’s energy to care. The bastards. They deserved each other, really. So he just sat there steaming, roasting in jealousy, like an angry little beet.

He never should have said anything to Stevie, not if he wanted a bit of dignity anyways. Firstly, he knew it’d make it’s way right into Xabi’s ears eventually, and secondly, it was a stupid thing to say. Okay, moment of truth, Gary Neville wasn’t bad to look at, and he seemed a mostly decent fellow. But he had two things going against him, maybe three. One, he was a barrister, and therefor he must naturally be a stuck up little snot. They all were, like it was some sort of requirement to become licensed or something. Two, he was from Manchester. Ugh. The very thought of dallying with someone from that shit hole made Carra feel sick. He might be a United fan, or worse, one of those obnoxious, grubby little City fans. Actually, on second thought, United was far worse than City. United had a history of epic blowhardery whereas City had no history to speak of at all, and in the end, he’d pick the lesser of two evils. But barrister Gary Neville didn’t strike him as a City fan. Carra could just tell, that bastard supported Manchester United. 

And also the third thing (which was a major thing, in Carra’s mind) was that in all likelihood Gary Neville wouldn’t be interested in him, or any other man. That was usually how it went for him. He never spared much thought on who he was or who he fancied. And that’s where his troubles began and ended. The blokes he liked never liked him back, and the ones who liked him just weren’t his type. Aside from a couple of times he and Stevie’d fooled around before Xabi came along, he’d been rather unfruitful in the romance department. But he was mostly used to it, and it left him with a particular mindset. He’d rather take risks in any other arena of his life than go down the road of rejection yet again. 

Besides, he might wind up like Stevie and Xabi, and they were so disgusting together, he didn't want any part of it. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Gary was handsome though. Better looking than he had a right to be, and Carra bet he’d look just as good in a tee-shirt and jeans as he did all dressed up for court. He’d probably look even better naked.

It took him a solid thirty seconds before he realized his mind was wandering again, and he looked back at the now silent pair who were watching him curiously.

“My god, Carra,” Stevie said, face lighting up. “You really are hot for him. Shite, I was only kidding.”

Carra’s face went red again. “Fuck you.”

Without missing a beat, the pair of them burst out into laughter as he sat there, sputtering in abject misery. Tricksy bastards.

*

“What’s this I hear about you going to Manchester?”

Carra stared at his TV set, not paying much attention to the soap opera playing on mute. He probably shouldn’t have answered the phone, but it was Pepe, and he supposed he owed his partner an explanation.

“Just helping out with something up there. I’ll only be two days.”

“Xabi says that you are staying with the prosecutor.” 

He could feel his blood pressure rising. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not.” Pepe sounded amused. Or perhaps that was just his kids screaming in the background. Carra honestly couldn’t tell. “Xabi says he’s a Manc.”

“Xabi also says Steven Gerrard is quote-un-quote bloody amazing in the sack.”

Pepe laughed, “What? Xabi said that?”

“He was drunk, but the point remains.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know.”

“Now I have the image of those two—”

“I know. Stop.” Carra quickly decided to change the subject, lest they get stuck in an unending cycle of speculation on their friends’ sexual proclivities. He got enough of the details from Stevie, thank you very much. He didn’t need Pepe joining in the aural assault. He could also do without Pepe speculating on his bedroom habits, thank you very much. “How’s paternity leave treating you? Yolanda hasn’t left you yet?”

“Please, Jamie. It’s wonderful. We’re all wonderful. And we’re all wondering why you haven’t come to visit the baby yet.”

“You don’t need me underfoot, Pep. You’ve got a full house as it is.” He felt a little bad. As godfather to the oldest two, he maybe ought to have made a more concerted effort to stop by, now that another one was home from the hospital.

“I’m not inviting you to stay the night. Just come by for dinner sometime. You bring dinner. Next Monday. I’ll tell Yo she won’t have to cook anything.”

“I— ”

“Hey Yo! Carra is bringing us dinner on Monday! … What? Yes, I’ll tell him!” Carra sighed as Pepe yelled and Yolanda yelled back. “Did you hear that, Carra? She wants you to bring dessert, too. Coconut cream something or other, unless you can find a peanut butter dream bar. I swear, you’d think she’s pregnant again with all of these cravings.”

“Christ, Pepe. She only had the baby three weeks ago. Control yourself, you bastard.”

Pepe gave a hearty laugh before his girls wrestled the phone away from their father in order to regale Uncle Carra with their take on the new baby. He listened, of course, and encouraged them to behave themselves and somehow managed to be talked into bringing them each a special present from Manchester when he came to see them on Monday.

“See you on Monday,” Pepe beamed, having regained possession of the receiver. “And don’t forget the desserts, Carra.”

 

*

He arrived at Gary Neville’s doorstep at just before eight in the evening, an overnight bag over his shoulder and the printed out directions in hand. Gary greeted him with a smile and showed him around the flat. It was nice enough, probably twice the size of Carra’s place and better decorated too. It looked like an adult lived there, an actual professional. Carra was impressed.

“And here’s the spare bedroom,” Gary said, leading him down the hall and into a small bedroom in the back. 

Carra set his bag down on the chair by the window, turning back to face him. “It’s real cozy.”

Gary laughed, “It’s alright. Gets ghastly cold in here though. Let me get you another blanket, in case you need it.”

They decided, before getting to work, to order in some food, and they sat at Gary’s kitchen table with the evidence boxes all around them, looking over the evidence as they waited for dinner. It was all rather straight-forward on paper. Basic burglaries, in and out, usually while the owners were away during the day. On one occasion an old lady had been home. The burglar, described as a man about six feet tall, with a muscular build and long dark hair, tied her up and took her glasses off. She wasn’t able to give a better description than that, though she did remark that he didn’t sound like a local. 

“Our suspect certainly does fit that bill,” Carra said, glancing up from the photos of the crime scene. “Where’s he from again?”

“Newcastle, by way of Argentina,” Gary said, narrowing his eyes at the photo of their suspect. “But there’s no physical evidence that it was him, only the witness’s recollection.”

“And the other witnesses describing his car near two of the scenes,” Carra added.

“Yes, but he had a reason for being there. He lived near one, worked near the other. The defense argues that it was natural for him to be in the area.”

“It’s a crime of opportunity,” Carra said firmly.

“I won’t argue with that. We just need something concrete to link him to the crime, and presently we’ve none.”

Carra bit his lip, thinking. Building a case against this bloke would be easy. There was plenty of circumstantial evidence to pile on. Enough of it and surely they could earn a conviction. But there was the risk that without a smoking gun, any of it could be ruled out, and after having personally made the arrest, Carra wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

Now, he was a homicide detective by trade. He’d started down that track early in his career, had really worked for it and shown he had an aptitude for it. Some cops chose that path because they were forced into it, or because the other departments didn’t suit them. Carra chose to study murder by choice. He’d always thought it was interesting, what made killers tick, what happened when a person snapped, but more importantly, he liked how it felt when he cracked a case and put it right. He liked feeling like there was real justice in the world. When he started a case, he always saw it through. Even after some years of work, he had a cold case or two sitting on his desk, but he also had a few decades left in him to solve them. He never gave up, and he’d work every angle down to the bone. And he fully intended to use that dedication on this simple burglary case. It might just be a burglary, but justice had to be done. No old lady should feel scared in her own home. Her assailant had to pay for what he’d done.

“And what all’d he take?” 

“In which case?” Gary asked, and just then Carra realized that Gary had been staring at him. And at that moment, Carra also realized that Gary realized that he realized Gary’d been staring. And at the moment, both of them gave an awkward half-laugh and looked quickly back at the documents. 

“In any of them? In all of them? Has he got an M.O.?”

“He stole electronics, mostly. Stereos, televisions, video games, computers. He took a high end grill once, nicked it right out of the back garden. He also took some jewelry on a few occasions.” Gary purposely seemed to be looking anywhere except at Carra, and of course Carra took notice. 

“What then did he do with them? Surely he didn’t keep all of it?” Carra asked, resting his chin in his palm, flipping over to another page of evidence, photographs and descriptions of the stolen items, truthfully expending more energy in watching Gary than in looking over the papers.

“We didn’t find any trace of it when we searched his apartment. Of course, he might’ve put some of it in hock.” 

Gary looked like he might say something more, but the bell rang just then, their delivery had arrived. He disappeared quickly, leaving Carra alone with the mountains of papers. As he waited, he leafed through the papers, until one caught his eye. Carra frowned as he stared at it, waving Gary back over once he returned.

“Who’s she?” Carra asked, pointing to a black and white photograph of a middle-aged woman, dressed in a suit outside of the courthouse. The photograph was odd, out of place amongst the rest of the pieces of evidence. But there was something else about the picture which gave Carra pause.

Gary set the take out bags on the counter and wandered back to Carra’s side, standing above him as he examined the photo. “Her? I think that’s the suspect’s mother. Why?” He didn’t bother sticking around, heading back to the counter to fetch plates and cutlery for them.

“She’s wearing the old lady’s necklace.”

Gary nearly dropped a ceramic bowl onto the floor, rushing back to Carra. “What are you talking abo—”

Carra had the two images side by side for him, and there was no doubt about it. The suspect’s mother was wearing the same necklace the old Manc woman had reported stolen. It was completely identical to the piece in the photograph the insurance company had provided. 

“How the fuck’d we miss that?” Gary asked, dumbfounded.

Carra grinned and shrugged. “Now we’ve just got to recover it and this case is back on track.”

Gary turned to look at him, something of awe on his face. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Yeah well, you’re a fan of United. You oughta be used to it.” 

If Gary was offended, he didn’t let it show. Instead he just laughed, and the two of them cleared off the table and sat down to share their meal.

*

They made their plans for the next day as they sat around the living room with the television on in the background. They would pay a visit to old Mrs. Coloccini and ask her if she’d care to explain how she came into possession of the distinctive piece of jewelry. With everything coming together, Carra and Gary opened up some beer and started to relax. They’d have the pieces of the case they needed in no time. But in the meantime, they started to talking, as one might if one were spending the night at a stranger’s flat.

“So why’d you become a prosecutor?” Carra asked, settling back against the couch. “There has to be some story to it.”

Gary raised his eyebrows and laughed. “Not much of one, I’m afraid. My father thought I’d be decent at it, since I mouthed off all the time.”

“Ha.”

“I’m serious. And it turned out I was pretty fair at it. So fast forward a few decades and here we are.” He stared at his beer bottle, almost amused. Carra watched him carefully. “And you, Jamie? Why’d you become a policeman?”

“That’s easy. I wanted to catch the villains and the job of Superman was taken.”

“And why’d you go into homicide? That’s a pretty specialized path.” Gary almost seemed to brace himself then, like he was suddenly worried that he might have just opened a can of worms or prompted some sob story about a dead sister or something.

Carra drew in a breath, giving Gary an earnest look. “I’m good at it and I’ve the stomach for it. That was really all I was thinking about when I signed on. You know, not everyone’s cut out for it. It’s unpleasant.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But that means those of us who can do the work should do the work, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. So long as it doesn’t take a toll on you, that is. I’ve seen and heard of detectives burning out early.”

He looked back over at Gary and watched him as he slowly took a sip from his bottle. “Some do, that’s true enough. I suppose you really have to know yourself and know what you can take mentally. I see the very worst of people and I see people at their very worst, if you understand my meaning. It’s never a lovely day when the homicide unit’s knocking at your door. But murder’s a reality of life. Not to be cynical, but people are always killing each other for one reason or another. No matter how we try and prevent it, we’ll always need folks willing to wade through the ugliness of it all and show that there’s some good left in the world.”

Gary was watching him back, an eyebrow arched. He sat forward in his seat then, staring at Carra like he was some sort of puzzle, all wide-eyed, enraptured. “I see. And what does your wife think of this?”

Carra laughed so hard, he was basically snorting. “I haven’t got one.”

“Your girlfriend then?” 

“I’ve never had one of those.”

Gary’s brows furrowed. He blinked a few times. “Never in your life?”

“My last boyfriend left me for this Spanish lad a few years back.” Gary choked. “That’s not really a proper term. He wasn’t me boyfriend, not technically. But he was my last… you know what, that’s totally TMI. This isn’t a problem for you, is it?”

“Is what a problem?” 

“That I’m… you know.” Carra wasn’t uncomfortable with himself, never had been, but he never felt quite right having to spell it out that he liked men. It was sort of an unspoken thing for him. Anyone who knew him knew him, he just didn’t care to wear a sign on his back or make some sort of announcement about it. He thought back to when he’d come out to Pepe, years ago now, back when they’d first been assigned as partners. Pepe’d hazed him a bit, gotten on his case about finding a nice girlfriend, maybe one of those wild types with the thick drawn-in eyebrows and the fake tans.

“I’m talking about those boxy-browed birds. You know which ones I mean. The ones that leave the house with curlers in.” Pepe had been smiling, biting into a sandwich.

“Please. Even if I were into girls, I wouldn’t date one of them. They look like clowns. It’s unnerving.”

Pepe hadn’t caught it at first, or maybe he thought he’d misheard, because he gave Carra a confused look. “What do you mean?” He’d asked, mouth full of bread.

Carra had been dreading that conversation, more so now that he’d slipped it into a regular conversation. He swallowed hard, set his own lunch down on his desk. “I mean they look like they’ve got face paint on. It’s even worse when they’re all orangey.”

“No. Not that. You said, ‘even if I were into girls’.”

“Yeah, I did,” he nodded, putting on a brave face. “I’m gay, Pepe.”

“I had no idea.”

“I know. S’why I’m telling you.”

“Well then,” Pepe said, chewing his sandwich. “Since you have come out to me, I suppose I should come out to you. I’m straight.”

“Yes, I know that. I’ve met Yolanda.”

“Isn’t that strange. You’ve met my wife and I haven’t met your boyfriend. Why is that, Carra? Are you hiding him from me? Afraid he’ll want to run off with me?”

He laughed, at once at ease, “I haven’t got a boyfriend, and any boyfriend I had would be insane to leave me for you.”

Pepe paused, only for a beat, then took another bite of his sandwich. “Cheeky. All right. So what gives? Why the hell are you single? You’re a handsome fellow. Your apartment’s not a wreck. You’re not broke. Are you a bad lay? No, not you, not my Carra. You can’t be that bad a lay. You need someone to teach you some tricks? Listen, I know some things. Let me tell you how it is done.”

Momentary embarrassment aside, it had been a fairly painless experience. Not everyone took the ‘news’ so well, but times had changed and the people he actually gave two shits about had either been completely accepting or not especially surprised. Which was good, of course, but. But. He always felt a bit uneasy. In denial, maybe. Not afraid, that wasn’t the proper word for it. Perhaps a bit trepidatious. 

And he hardly knew Gary at all. And he sort-of kind-of found him completely attractive. Now, he didn’t take Gary for one of those blowhard jerks who’d flip out or something, but he was a Manc. Not that Mancs were all inherently small-minded bigots, but Carra felt he had a right to be cautious.

Carra realized then that he’d never finished his sentence, and that Gary was still staring at him, almost slack-jawed, like he wanted him to say something more. “It don’t bug you that I’m gay, does it?”

Gary shook his head quickly. “N-no. Why would it…”

Carra laughed, still a bit nervous. “It’s just the look on your face is pretty extreme.”

“I… It’s not a problem. At all. I assure you, it is in no way an issue.”

“Good.” Carra sank back into the folds of the sofa and sipped his beer. 

“Terrific,” Gary said, nodding firmly, rising to gather the empty bottles that had accumulated on the coffee table, standing sentry like lonely bastions in the night. Arms full, he paused before he disappeared into the kitchen. “By the way, I’m gay too.”

*

He had a difficult time sleeping after that, and breakfast had been a little bit strange. He had to wonder, had Gary been trying to flirt with him? Or was that all just a figment of his imagination and perhaps a bit too much beer? He hadn’t had all that much, really. He was sure he hadn’t thought up the whole thing. But still, being flirted with wasn’t a common enough occurrence that he exactly knew how to handle it when it did happen. Sure, he’d had hook ups every now and then, but there was a big difference between picking up some stranger in a bar and flirting with the Manc prosecutor who was hosting him for the weekend. He didn’t want to read the situation wrong and spoil the rest of the weekend, let alone their working relationship. The case meant a lot to him professionally, even without the added benefit of time spent with Gary Neville, and he’d be damned if he jeopardized it all for the chance at some tail.

They both woke up late and ate their toast in relative silence, chatting about benign topics like the weather or the neighbor’s dog, which barked steadily throughout the meal. Gary liked dogs. Carra liked dogs too, and he might’ve disclosed as much if he wasn’t so tired from lack of sleep.

But a few cups of strong coffee perked him right up, and by the time they were at Mrs. Coloccini’s doorstep, Carra was feeling more like himself. Gary pressed the doorbell and they waited for an answer, exchanging quick glances with one another.

The door opened then, and there stood Mrs. Coloccini, wrapped in a housecoat, looking rightfully perplexed. She was an older, pretty woman, with wild dark hair swept up into a messy knot, which might have been half-elegant if the styling had been intentional. “Yes?”

Gary cleared his throat, “Good morning, Mrs. Coloccini. I’m Gary Neville from the— ”

“I know who you are,” she cut him off, leaning against the door frame, as if she might block their entry or line of sight. Her accent was soft, words slushed together in a pleasant, melodic way, but her voice was firm. “Is there some reason you are at my doorstep at noon on a Saturday? My son is not here.”

“Yes, well—”

“Do not think I will help you, Mister Neville. Or you, Mister…” She looked at Carra, narrowing her eyes. For being such a small woman, she’d mastered the art of intimidation quite well. “You. You’re the policeman who arrested my boy. I haven’t forgotten you.”

“Jamie Carragher,” he said, extended a hand to shake. She stared at him suspiciously, then shook his hand. “We’re not here for any trouble, ma’am. We just have a few questions—”

She snatched her hand away and gave a highly offended snort. “You wish for me to implicate my son! Well I won’t do it! Fabricio is innocent of this crime! You all have made a terrible mistake!”

“If that’s the case,” Gary said, “Then wouldn’t you like to help us clear his name? Help us find out who’s behind these burglaries. If it wasn’t your son, then who was it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But my Fabricio is innocent. He’s been framed.”

“Can you offer up any names, any suspects at all?” Carra asked. He wasn’t buying the act, not one bit, but he thought better than to antagonize the woman.

Mrs. Coloccini shook her head. “He has some unsavory friends. Ever since we left Newcastle, he’s been surrounded by hooligans and scoundrels. It’s not right. I try to teach him the right way, but those terrible people… I try not to concern myself with them. I want nothing to do with them. I wish they would leave us alone.”

“Right,” Gary said, looking to Carra. This was going nowhere fast.

“Just one more question, ma’am.” Carra took out a manila envelope of pulled out the photograph they’d found the night before. He held it out to Mrs. Coloccini, watching her face as she looked at it.

“It’s me.” 

“Yes, well, I just have one question about this. The necklace you’re wearing, where’d you get it?”

Her eyes narrowed in thought, confusion, and she ran a hand through her mess of hair. “I bought it. I bought it special, for the court. I wanted to be presentable for the judge.”

“Where did you buy it, ma’am?” Gary asked.

“At a pawn dealer… yes, the pawn dealer near to the launderette.” She bit her lip in thought. “You wait here. I have something.” Before Carra or Gary could react, the door was shut in the faces. They looked to each other, both opening their mouths to speak at once as the door reopened and Mrs. Coloccini reappeared with her purse. 

“Yes, here. I have, for you.” She pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Carra. It was the yellow carbon copy of a handwritten receipt. £100 for an item labelled only as ‘necklace’, £15 for an item labelled teapot. And at the bottom was an imprinted address for a pawn shop. “You see. I bought it there.”

“No date on it,” Carra said, handing Gary the receipt as he pulled his notepad from his pocket to jot down the address and details.

“It’s near enough. We can stop by and check it out,” Gary said, handing the receipt back to Mrs. Coloccini, who looked more and more suspicious with every passing moment.

“Is something wrong? Am I in trouble?” She clutched the receipt closely.

“No,” Gary said as Carra put his notebook away again. “You’re not in trouble, ma’am. But hold onto that receipt. It could save your son a lot of trouble.”

She gasped a little, then nodded, bidding them goodbye. As the door clicked shut, Carra turned to Gary. “You think we ought to let your local precinct take this over?”

“And let them botch this even further?” Gary said with a laugh as they walked down the sidewalk toward his car. “No.”

“All right, Gary. But which side are we on? Aren’t we trying to put Fabricio Coloccini in prison?” 

“Yes, Jamie. But only if he’s guilty.” He quirked a brow, then unlocked the doors for them. “And if he’s not…”

Carra set his mouth into a thin line, noting the infuriatingly attractive glint in Gary’s eyes. He shook his head. “Right. Wherever the evidence takes us, mate.”

*

The pawn shop was one of those old places that hadn’t been renovated in nearly forty years. A thick cloud of dust engulfed patrons as they entered the door, the faded beige carpet was scuffed and worn through in places, covered with gravel and dirt, likely a health hazard. Gary and Carra were welcomed by two large glass cases on either side of the entryway, creating a long, narrow pathway to the back of the shop where the larger items were on display. As they entered, they both glanced around at the items for sale, mostly jewelry and antiques and other moderately valuable items. They could see a selection of furniture and electronics in the back.

A woman behind one of the glass counters greeted them. “Good afternoon. Is there anything I can help you find today?”

“Yes, actually,” Gary said. “My name is Gary Neville, I’m with the local prosecutor’s office. This is Detective Carragher. We’re hoping to speak with the proprietor.”

The woman nodded, then hollered at the top of her lungs, “Mommy! Some cops are here! Come quick, Mommy!”

And out from a back room appeared a small white haired lady with large glasses which made her resemble an owl. She waddled toward them, pushed them up her nose, and smiled politely. “Hello sirs. How can I be of service?”

“Ma’am,” Gary said, stealing a look to Carra, who was taking out his notepad. “We’re looking to confirm a purchase which made some weeks ago.”

“I’ve got the receipt number here,” Carra added, passing the pad to the owner.

“And we have a photograph of the item.”

“We’d like it if you could double check your records to verify it’s all on the up and up.”

The old woman squinted as she read Carra’s handwriting, then nodded, shuffling behind the counter through several drawers until she pulled out a stack of several of those old fashioned hand-written receipt books. “Just take me a moment to find the right one, lads. Have a look around, if you care. It may take me some.”

The pair of them nodded, stepping back to let her leaf through the books. There was plenty to look at besides. Fancy jewelry, some of it likely very expensive, rare coins, war medals, royal family tea sets, the odd antique book. Carra looked them over, none quite catching his eye. What did catch his eye was Gary, crouched down before one of the cases, staring in like a little boy in a sweets shop.

“What’s that?” Carra asked, peering over Gary’s shoulder at the assorted objects in the case. 

“Memorabilia,” Gary said flatly, not looking up. And indeed, it was memorabilia. Loads and gobs of Manchester United goodies. Match programs from a decade ago, pins, medals, buttons, a china set, trading cards. If Carra wasn’t so dedicated to being a professional he might’ve gagged.

“Oh you like them, eh? My husband was a big supporter. You know, I’ve got Bobby Charlton’s boot in the back,” the old woman said, flipping through her books still.

Gary nearly choked. “You what?” 

“Oh, yes. Nice chap, he is. I can’t rightly recall now how my husband got that boot, but he did and he got him to sign it too. Right lovely fellow.”

Even Carra had to admit, that was pretty cool.

“I never cared for him, personally. My daddy liked City and so I did too. We used to get into rows about it, my husband and me. He could be a right arsehole about it.” Carra laughed, looking back at her. She glanced up, a bit mischievously, “And you, lad. You’re not one of those dirty devils, are you?”

“He’s a Scouser, ma’am. Or couldn’t you tell?” Gary said, dusting himself off and scowling a little.

“Of course he is. I’m old, but I still know that noise when I hear it. Ah yes, here we are, I’ve found the record, lads.”

Forgetting the mixed loyalties, they gathered around to check the receipt, which indeed matched the carbon copy of the one Mrs. Coloccini had presented earlier. Carra turned it round to face them, flipping the pages quickly. The dates on the other consecutive receipts were some nine months back, and as Carra recalled, it was right around the time of the original robbery.

“I don’t suppose you can recall who sold this piece?” Carra asked.

“I suppose it was me. That’s my handwriting there on the receipt.” She adjusted her glasses again, then gave a nod. 

“We’re interested in the jewelry,” Gary said. “Would you be able to recall the piece if we showed you the photograph?”

“I can certainly do my best.”

Carra then got the photograph out of the file and passed it to the woman. “This is the piece. Do you recognize it?”

The woman studied the photo for only a few seconds before a look of recognition came over here. “Oh, yes! That was a lovely one. Can’t believe we only priced it at £100. I said it was worth more, but my son insisted it was costume junk. Lovely junk, mind, but he said it’d never sell if we asked more than that for it. I had my eye on it myself.”

“By chance do you remember the person who brought it in?” Gary asked. “Specifically, do you recall if it was a man, or…?”

“Oh I remember all right. It wasn’t a man, no. It was a girl. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. A right pretty thing. A redhead. She brought in heaps of things. Old gadgets and goodies. Jewelry mostly, but there was a stereo system and one of those…” She snapped her fingers, trying to recall the word. “Mimi, what’s that thing called?”

“An Xbox, Mommy,” the other woman called from across the shop.

“Right. An Xbox. Of course that was all months ago now. All of that’s been sold by now. But I know that girl, I’d recall that pretty face anywhere. She looked a lot like me when I was younger, if you can believe it.” The old woman laughed, fluffing her white hair.

Meanwhile, Gary and Carra shared a perplexed look. A woman? A pretty young redhead? That hadn’t been in the cards. Did Coloccini have an accomplice they knew nothing about? They left the shopkeeper with their cards and requested that she call right away if she saw the woman again, or if she thought of anything else. Then they headed back to Gary’s car with more questions than they had solid answers.

*

The questions would have to wait though, because by the time they arrived back at Gary’s flat, the sun was beginning to set and the early winter haze was settling over Manchester, and both of the men realized quite abruptly that they were hungry. Gary suggested a nearby pub and Carra agreed, and so they sat across from each other in the noisy establishment, drinking beers as they waited for their food.

“What a day,” Gary said, looking up at the ceiling, shaking his head.

Carra made a noise of agreement. There was plenty to think about, and not all of it necessarily related to the strange case they’d spent all day pursuing. His mind was absolutely racing, and the situation wasn’t helped by the infuriating way the dim yellow lights of the pub hit Gary’s cheekbones. Snorting again, he dismissed those thoughts straight away.

“What a mess. You know, I can’t help but wonder why the police department didn’t do any of this investigating before. All of the stuff we found today was pretty obvious— no offense to your deductive skills,” Gary said.

“None taken,” Carra said, raising his bottle. “But you’ve got a real point there. If the police officers on the case didn’t follow up on these leads, there must be a reason, and while I’m tempted to just write them off as lazy Mancs…” Gary sniffed loudly. “I think there might be something else at stake.”

They were both quiet a moment, each in their own thoughts. Behind them, highlights from the day’s City match were playing on one of the TVs over the bar. Gary instinctively turned his head to look and sneer. Carra couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“You’re atrocious, you know that?”

“Me?” Gary asked, suddenly looking proud and very haughty. “What’s atrocious about me?”

“Can’t even see them on the TV without gagging. If you could only see your face, Neville. It’s brilliant.”

“I don’t always gag,” he said, looking vaguely pinkish in the low light. 

Carra burst out laughing again.

“It’s complicated. I don’t expect you’d understand. I expect it’s completely over your head.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carra watched him expectantly, getting a small kick out of the way Gary tried to look effortless as he carefully chose his next words.

“I’ve rooted for them a time or two before,” Gary said at last.

“Oh, have you?”

“Sure. When they’re up against your lot I have.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

Gary laughed then, shaking his head. “And I’m sure you’d root for Everton if they were up against us.”

“Ah, but that’s different,” Carra said, waggling his finger. “I used to support Everton.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Hand to God.” He watched in amusement as Gary looked at him in disbelief, biting back a grin.

“What happened? What went wrong?”

“Fuck off,” Carra said, for the first time with full affection in his voice, and as they laughed and talked and sparred, the thought occurred that maybe the Manc bastard was pretty decent company, and maybe, just maybe he hadn’t been imagining it that Gary might like him.

*

He had to leave early the next morning if he wanted to make it back to Liverpool in time to catch the game from Stevie and Xabi’s apartment, so stumbling back to Gary Neville’s flat at 3:30am hadn’t exactly been part of the plan. But that seemed to be the nature of Carra’s life at the moment. They’d been having a pleasant time together, sniping at each other about anything and everything, mocking each other’s teams, cities, accents, whatever. And it had actually been fun. And they might’ve actually been flirting. Carra still wasn’t quite sure on that. He wasn’t exactly the most adept when it came to things of that nature. He remembered when he and Stevie’d fooled around and how that all came about, and he was almost certain they’d been drunk out of their minds. He couldn’t even recall who’d initiated it. And when it came to everyone else he’d managed temporary trifles with, it usually involved him having consumed plenty of liquor and fucking once and never seeing the person again. 

He’d consumed plenty of liquor with Gary that night. More than Gary had, he was quite certain. He wasn’t exactly drunk, per se, but he was pretty tipsy, and he was feeling pretty good. Good enough that he might’ve been a bit obvious with the way he stared at Gary, let his eyes linger, laughed a bit too loud, teased him a bit too harshly, made an off color insinuation or two. But Gary didn’t seem to mind it. He teased right back, if anything he egged Carra on. He stared right back, and Carra could almost swear he made moony eyes at him once or twice. Maybe he was imagining it, but Gary seemed almost comfortable with his attempts at flirtation, and it was that ease that set Carra’s mind to thinking.

Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue anything besides all that with Gary Neville, but… the fact that there was a but, the fact that the idea even crossed his mind was highly significant. Carra didn’t do that sort of thing, never, not at all. And yet, there he was, drunkenly leaning against Gary’s front door frame, tempted to wrap his arms around Gary’s waist as he fumbled with the lock, wanting desperately to press his lips to the exposed bit of Gary’s neck and just kiss him.

He was pretty sure that if he had, he could’ve gotten away with it. But he didn’t. He let Gary unlock and open the door and followed in a step behind, eyes adjusting slowly to the pitch black of the entryway.

“Home sweet home,” Gary said, kicking off his shoes in the dark. Carra nearly bumped into him, catching himself against the wall.

He didn’t say anything at first, blinking as Gary’s silhouette slowly faded into view. “Yeah. I’ve got an early train, you know.”

“I know,” Gary said as he made his way through the hall, to the living room. “You want a ride to the station?”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind,” Carra said, following him through the dark.

“I don’t mind,” Gary said, stopping just before they reached the sofa. “Jamie?” 

“Yeah?” 

Gary turned then, so quickly that Carra didn’t quite see him do it, and before he could say anything, Gary’s lips met his. Carra’s reaction was delayed, unsure, and quite frankly he was shocked out of his mind. But it only took a moment for his sense to return and for instinct to settle in. They were on each other like starved animals, and in Carra’s case at least, the metaphor was rather apt. The alcohol did wonders for his bravery, and he decided right then and there that he’d like to take the risk of it being a one off, if it meant he’d get to fuck Gary at least once.

He pawed at Gary’s pants, wanting to unfasten them but lacking a bit of the coordination to do it himself. He made a bit of progress, brushing Gary’s dick slightly as he gasped against Carra’s jaw. Carra finally got his pants undone when Gary slithered away from him a little. They were so close then that even in the darkness they could see each other, adding to it all was the sound of heavy breathing, along with the pounding of their hearts in their ear drums. 

“Jamie,” Gary said, breath unsteady, both hands cupping Carra’s cheeks.

“Yeah?” Carra said, out of breath himself.

“Come back next weekend.” He said it with such finality, like it was a command rather than a request. 

Carra understood it immediately, and realized in that very moment too just how far gone he really was. He didn’t fight it. He couldn’t. He didn’t even want to. Instead he just stood there like an idiot, nodding. “Okay.”

Gary grinned, wicked, like a fucking devil, and tapped Carra on the cheek before rocking back and away from him. “If we’re gonna fuck, you’d better be sober enough to enjoy it. I’m not doing all the work.”

Carra sputtered, not sure if he should be offended, mortified, or fucking entertained. He opted for a mix of all three. “I’m genuinely at a loss, Gary.”

“You’re too drunk to fuck, Jamie.”

“Fuck you, I’m not.”

“Yeah you are.”

“So why’d you kiss me then?”

“Because I wanted to.” Gary shrugged, switching on the lamp then, filling the room with a pale amber glow. “Now go and pack your things. Can’t have you missing your train and spending the whole day here, stuck with me.”

He had to admit, the idea was actually rather appealing. But then, he’d just had the promise of a fuck next weekend hadn’t he. The way he saw it, he had two choices. One, stay in Manchester and try to drunkenly convince Gary Neville to fuck him, then waste the rest of the day stuck in Manchester while Gary watched the United match; or two, go home to Liverpool, watch the Reds with Stevie and Xabi, and wait a bloody week to come back and fuck Gary while being sober enough to remember it… and actually get it up. Tough choices all around.

“Stop overthinking it and pack your shit,” Gary said, collapsing onto his couch, smiling up at him. “You’ll be back in six days. You can wait.”

And, he decided, he could. He could be patient. He could definitely wait… after he kissed Gary Neville one more time. “You’re such a cunt,” he said, dropping to his knees before him, like a sinner at an alter. “Kiss me.”

Gary let out a sharp laugh, head thrown back. Then he leaned forward and kissed Carra on the forehead. 

*

“Where’s Stevie?” Carra asked when Xabi answered the door.

“He’s just run to the store,” Xabi said, looking perplexed as he stepped aside to let Carra into the apartment. “He’ll only be a few minutes, I’m sure.

“Good.” Carra didn’t bother to take off his coat or shoes as he made himself right at home and made a beeline for the kitchen. Xabi trailed him a step behind, arms folded as he could only watch his guest rummage through the refrigerator. 

“Help yourself,” Xabi said, the amused judgement seeping into his voice as he turned and left for the living room. “There isn’t any beer, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“What?” 

“That is why Steven went out.”

Carra made a disappointed sound as he made his way to the living room to join Xabi on the couch. The pre-match commentary was already starting. “He’d better hurry or he’ll miss the start.”

“He won’t miss the start.”

“If he doesn’t move his arse he might.”

Xabi rolled his eyes, and right on cue the front door opened and in charged Stevie with the necessary beers in tow. “Did I miss anything?”

“No,” said Xabi.

“Yes, you’re missing the line up,” said Carra.

Stevie poked his head into the room then, grinning at them both. “Oh, you made it, Carra. How was it with that Manc of yours? You get any?” He waggled his eyebrows a little and tossed a pack of cigarettes at Xabi before disappearing again.

“Shut up,” Carra hissed, turning bright red.

Xabi gave him a knowing sort of look. “You did have a good time, yes? They say that Manchester has a way of growing on a person.”

“Nobody’s ever said that, you lying Spanish cunt.”

“Hey!” Stevie called from the kitchen.

“Don’t be so hypersensitive,” Xabi said to Carra, evidently amused. He dropped his voice a bit then. “It went well, didn’t it.”

“Cram it up your—”

Stevie cleared his throat then, setting beers down on the table for them all before plopping down between the two of them. “Come on, Carra. Just answer me this: was he worth losing your dignity over? Was that Manc arse worth knowing you fucked around with a Manc?”

Somehow, against all odds, Carra’s cheeks went even more red, and beside him on the couch, Stevie and Xabi snickered to themselves. “You know what, for the record, you’re filthy twats, the both of you, and I am personally ashamed to call you my mates.”

“Carra,” Xabi said, snorting a little as he laughed. “When is the wedding?” Stevie laughed even harder, elbowing Carra sharply.

“Oh, fu—”

“Oh look! The match is beginning!” Xabi chirped, and Carra let out a sigh, cracked open his beer, and idly wished he was back at home or back in Manchester. Either place would do, so long as Gary was watching with him.

*

The match ended and Xabi went outside to the garden to smoke and call his mother (because it’s Sunday) leaving Carra and Stevie alone to clean up the mess. They chatted benignly and celebrated the day’s victory before Stevie turned to Carra with an almost grim look on his face.

“What’s the matter with you?” Carra asked, giving him a puzzled look.

“Nothing’s the matter,” Stevie said, dropping his voice. “I need to tell you something.”

“All right,” Carra said, shifting his eyes a little.

“I’m going to ask Xabi to marry me.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“You’re insane.”

“What?”

“You’ve lost it, mate.”

Stevie crossed his arms, scowling. “Why the… why? How’ve I lost it?”

“You’re not getting married. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard out of your mouth.” By this point, Carra had shifted from shock to disbelief to total amusement. “Whoever put such a stupid idea in your head? Really.”

“We’ve talked about it,” Stevie said. “We’ve talked about it and he wants to get married.”

“Well, you can’t,” Carra said, as though that was the final word on the matter as he put the empty bottles in the bin.

Stevie, however, done bristling in defiance, seemed to take full control over the unfolding debate. He narrowed his eyes at Carra, then let out a sharp laugh. “Right. Well, I see what’s going on.”

Carra snorted, looking over his shoulder to meet his gaze with equal amounts of disdain. “What’s that then?”

“You’re jealous.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are, you bastard. You’re practically turning green.”

“If I’m green it’s because you two make me sick to my stomach.”

Stevie took a step toward him, menacingly close, but somehow lacking any actual spite in his eyes. It made Carra nervous just looking at him. Nothing good could come from a confrontational Steven Gerrard who was speaking out of fucking love. “It just galls you, doesn’t it? Drives you mad seeing other people so happy when you’re such a miserable little shit. Well, good. I’m glad you’re miserable. I’m glad you’re jealous. Maybe this’ll be what snaps you out of this depressing little stupor you’re in.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Carra stammered.

“You, you lousy arse. You sit at home all nights playing that damned video game, bitching about how you fancy someone and then you haven’t got the balls to do anything about it. And you come here, to my own house, give my man the stink eye all day and then have the nerve to tell me I can’t marry him because it might hurt your feelings.” 

“I never—”

“Shut up, Jamie, I’m not finished with you,” Stevie said, and Carra instantly cowed. “I’m going to ask him, on his birthday. And I was gonna ask you to be there. But if that’s too much for you to take on, I’ll call Pepe instead.”

Carra stayed pointedly silent.

“I love him, Carra. And I’m going to marry him. You could at least pretend that you’re happy for me.”

The sound of the backdoor opening stopped them both, Xabi reappearing surrounded by cold air and the scent of cigarettes. “Hey. Did I miss anything.”

“No.” They replied in unison.

Xabi looked unconvinced but gave a nod. “Do you need any he—”

“No,” Carra said, suddenly pushing past him. “I’m just going.”

“Already?” Xabi asked, turning to watch as he gathered up his things. “You won’t stay for d—”

“No.”

“See you tomorrow, Carra,” Stevie called, just in time to hear the door slam shut.

*

CowUdder46 logged on at 7pm sharp. Most of the usual suspects were present to greet him.

“Hi, CowUdder!” SparkleSnake92 chirped as she set up the game. 

“There you are,” fizzer18 crowed. “I thought you’d skip out after today’s shitshow— ”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t bring it up,” CowUdder46 said bitterly. xXsuckXxitxXspursXx snickered.

“Aw, Gazza, don’t be a sore loser,” fizzer18 said, sounding especially smug.

“Where have you been? You weren’t online all weekend!” SparkleSnake92 asked. The game was all set to go. Another Merseyside derby, as usual, and the players began selecting their sides.

CowUdder46 sighed, hesitating before choosing Liverpool. “I was busy.”

“He had a houseguest,” fizzer18 said confidently. “So. How’d it go?”

“Ooh! How fun!” SparkleSnake92 giggled. “Did you have a fun time?”

“How did what go? We were working.”

“Is that all you were doing?”

“Shut up.”

“Be honest.”

“I am being honest.”

“No. You’re being evasive, Gary.”

“No I’m not.”

“So what you’re saying is you chickened out. You’re such a moron, you know that?”

“How am I a moron?”

“Because you had that g—”

“Can we please just start the match? You’re acting like toddlers!” xXsuckXxitxXspursXx growled. Dutifully, SparkleSnake92 started the game. Their squabbling continued, however, with SparkleSnake92 laughing and squealing while CowUdder46 and fizzer18 bickered about who was the actual moron and taunted each other with the sort of stupid and sordid personal details only the closest of friends could know.

Midway through the third rematch, ForeverRed23 made his appearance.

“Don’t everyone welcome me at once,” he said, catching the tail end of some embarrassing story of CowUdder46’s first attempt to ask out a classmate.

“Hi!,” SparkleSnake92 cried. “Where have you been? It’s been so quiet without you!”

“Yeah. So quiet.” xXsuckXxitxXspursXx sounded slightly disappointed, but Carra took it in stride.

“I was out of town.”

“On vacation?” SparkleSnake92 asked.

“Not exactly. It was for work.” 

“You people are so boring,” fizzer18 sighed. “Does no one mix business and pleasure?”

“Some of us are professionals, Phil,” CowUdder46 said flatly.

“I didn’t say I didn’t have fun,” Carra said. “I might’ve had more fun, but certain other parties put the kibosh on that.”

“Ouch,” xXsuckXxitxXspursXx said.

“Tell me about it,” Carra snorted. 

“Huh?” SparkleSnake92 sounded thoroughly confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means he wanted some and didn’t get it,” fizzer18 said.

“He wanted some what?”

“Some ass,” xXsuckXxitxXspursXx clarified.

“Ass?”

“Christ,” CowUdder46 exhaled loudly. “There are children present.”

“I’m not a child. I’m almost 16.”

“Go ask one of your schoolmates,” CowUdder46 said.

“No! Don’t ask your schoolmates!” Carra gasped, laughing. “Don’t ever ask your schoolmates.”

“Well how’s she going to learn? You can’t give a teenager a lesson on the facts of life over Xbox Live. I’m certain that must be in violation of the terms of service.”

“So she could google it,” fizzer18 said helpfully.

“Don’t google anything you hear in this chat! Are you fuckers insane? Have you ever used the internet before? For fuck’s sake.” Carra wanted to reach through the television and slap them all.

“That’s how everyone learns about sex these days,” fizzer18 said.

CowUdder46 sounded indignant. “Just because you spent the entirety of your teen years jerking off to online porn doesn’t mean— ”

“I think I understand what you meant now,” SparkleSnake92 said as xXsuckXxitxXspursXx burst out laughing.

Later, when the night began to wind down, only fizzer18, CowUdder46, and Carra were left, and while there’d been plenty of the usual banter, the atmosphere in the chat seemed markedly changed somehow.

“What’s the matter, boys? You’re such downers tonight,” fizzer18 said, setting up one last game. “I mean, it’s typical for you to be a wet blanket, Gaz, but this fellow here isn’t usually so sullen.”

CowUdder46 scoffed while Carra sighed.

“Something really wrong?” CowUdder46 asked. “Your boys won, shouldn’t you be boasting about it?”

“Yeah, probably, and I will next time. Just not in the mood tonight.”

“I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life. Come on now. What’s bugging you?” asked fizzer18.

Carra hesitated, thinking it over. He wasn't especially keen on spilling the sorry details of his life to total strangers online, but on the other hand he didn't have anyone else to vent to, leastways not anyone who wouldn't judge the shit out of him. There was a sort of protection that came along with using an alias or a handle. He could get things off his chest without having to own up to it at the end of the day. He’d done it a few times before. His usual companions knew bits and pieces of his life. Most of them knew he was a cop, knew he lived in Liverpool, knew his first name, but that was really all. It wasn't as though he were some unsuspecting teen getting lured into the underworld. He was a grown man and entitled to share what he liked. He knew the risks and quite frankly they didn’t scare him. So he sighed, then said plainly, “It’s what I said before.”

“About the bird who wouldn’t put out?” fizzer18 asked.

He thought briefly about correcting him, but shrugged it off. “Yeah.”

“You’re real hung up on her then?” 

“No. Not exactly. It’s complicated that’s all.”

CowUdder46 cleared his throat, “Does she fancy you?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think so,” Carra said, a bit unsteady. 

“So maybe she just didn’t wanna fuck,” said fizzer18. “Or maybe she did but she was on the rag.”

“Oh, shut it, will you?” CowUdder46 groaned. 

“It’s a valid explanation for what happened.”

“I don’t care if it is, you’re being crass.”

“Nah, lads, I don’t think that was it,” Carra said, unheard thanks to their bickering. He listened to them arguing a moment, then thought out loud, “Me best mate says I’m a miserable little shit ‘cause I’m sitting home playing Xbox instead of, well… you know. Going for it. But I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Well,” said fizzer18, “You are sitting here playing Xbox instead of phoning up your girl.” He paused a moment, “This applies to you too, Gaz, you sad jackass.”

“I didn’t ask you for advice, you knob.”

“I don’t care. I’m the agony aunt tonight. Both of you are sad, miserable individuals with the ability to change all that, and instead you’ve spent your entire evening playing Xbox with me. You’ve both got mobiles, haven’t you? Call them up. Put down the controllers and call them. For fuck’s sake.”

Carra never thought he’d be galvanized by a near-stranger’s advice, but fizzer18 did make an awful lot of sense. He was being pretty pathetic, moping about Stevie, and subtly, vaguely thinking about the weekend in Manchester and what could have been. Then of course there was the promise of another weekend in Manchester, and with that the anticipation of what could be. Without thinking, he grabbed his phone from his pocket and started scrolling through the contacts until he landed on the entry for Gary Neville.

“You’re right. I’m gonna call. I’ll talk to you all later.” And with that, ForeverRed23 signed off.

“And what about you?” fizzer18 said flatly. It was just the two of them left in the chat.

“What about me, Phil?” CowUdder46 replied.

“You gonna tell me what happened? You were anxious about it before.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad?”

“No.”

“Oh. That good? Don’t worry, I don’t want the details. A simple yes will suffice.”

“You won't get anything from me. Anyways, I have to go.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s calling me.”

“Who’s calling you?”

“Jamie. That cop what stayed over. He’s ringing me up right now.”

“What? What the fu—!” fizzer18 sputtered. “Wait! Gary—” 

But it was too late. CowUdder46 suddenly logged off and fizzer18 was all alone.

*

It rang six times before Gary picked up. “Hello?”

Carra was actually almost surprised to hear his voice. He coughed, sputtered a little. “Hi. Gary. It’s, er, Jamie.” Gary was quiet, didn’t say anything at first, so Carra pressed on. “I thought I should call you and say I got home alright.”

“Good,” Gary said at last, awkwardly. “I was a little worried when you didn’t call but I figured you wanted to catch your mates.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I saw your fellas won today.”

Carra grinned and settled back on his couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. “You’re damn right they did. They were fucking brilliant. And your lads choked.”

“Thank you so much for reminding me,” Gary said, not sounding as angry as he rightly should have. Carra wished he was there though, just to see his face. “And you said I was the atrocious one.”

“You are atrocious, mate. Not as atrocious as Manchester United themselves, but—”

“Oi, now that’s uncalled for. We’ve got a bloody talented team who play excellent, attacking football. What happened today was—”

“Bloody marvelous and rightly deserved! Your defense was shit and there’s no way you can argue it otherwise. Gaps, all round the middle, Gary. You can’t play football like that and expect to win anything.” Carra couldn’t resist, and he felt rather proud of himself, until he remembered he was talking to someone he was trying to bed. Oops. 

What was he trying to do, exactly? Scare the guy off? Sure, a bit of banter was fun, but there was always the risk of crossing the line. He knew that well enough, he didn’t need reminding. And the truth was, they’d only really spent one full day together. He didn’t know how Gary would take his hazing, and, whether he truly wanted to admit it or not, he’d rather not blow his chances entirely. 

He exhaled, with a bit of a sheepish laugh. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“I know. I’m still coming next week though,” Carra said quietly.

The got a snort from Gary. “Are you? Good. We’ve got work to do. I’ve done a bit of legwork on the case today myself.”

Carra sat up straight again. He hadn’t forgotten the case, not hardly, but he’d let his mind wander most of the day, and he had to admit, he was slightly disappointed that Gary apparently wanted to talk business. But he was a professional and he knew Gary was too. They could flirt and banter some other time. Probably. “Eh? What’ve you done?”

“I had a friend at the precinct do a bit of sniffing around to try and find this redheaded girl who brought in the stolen jewelry, see if he can’t find one of Coloccini’s known associates who fits the description. Should have word back in a day or so.”

“That’s really bright of you, Gary.” Carra paused, wanted to retract that statement. “I meant that was very helpful.”

For his part, Gary exhibited far more patience than Carra deserved. “Someone has to do the work, Jamie. Justice has got to be done.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, you know.” Gary was quiet. Carra didn’t like it. “Don’t think I’m just coming up there in hopes that you’ll wanna shag. I’m a professional too, Gary.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

“Okay, well, I just wanted that to be clear.”

“It’s totally clear. Crystal.” 

Fuck, it was awkward. Maybe fizzer18 was wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have called at all. Maybe it would have been better just to text him. Yeah, he probably just should’ve texted him.

But then Gary surprised him. “What time will you get in?”

Carra shifted in his seat, mumbling a little. “I dunno, I’ve got to check the schedule. I was thinking I might come round on Thursday night, if that’s not a problem.”

“No, it’s fine. That’s good.” Carra nearly sighed with relief. “You sure you can get all that time off?”

“No. I’ll probably be written up for it.”

“A policeman who doesn’t follow the rules. My, my. How irregular.”

“Hey, now…”

“Perhaps it’s more commentary on your upbringing rather than your profession. Scouse bobby bends the law. Possesses a blatant and intentional disregard for authority and how things are done. Why am I not surprised?” Gary laughed then, and so did Carra. “Let me know when you’ll be in and I’ll pick you up.”

“You don’t have to.”

“If you don’t want me to drive you—”

“I didn't say that—”

“So quit arguing and send me a text, you git.” Gary sighed. Carra chuckled. “I’ve got to hang up now. I’ve got to be in at six-thirty.”

“Christ, Neville! It’s nearly 2 in the morning. If you’ve got to be at work in four hours, why’d you even pick up?”

“Because you called.”

Carra didn’t know what to say to that. He just laughed nervously. “I’ll let you know when I’ll be at the station. Let me know if your mate turns up anything useful.”

“All right. Good night, Jamie.”

“Good night.”

*

Gary stood in his kitchen, staring at his mobile like it had wronged him in some way. Why had he said that? Why? Because you called? What kind of a fool’s answer was that? He wanted to pitch the stupid thing across the room but thought better of it at the last moment and shoved it back into his pocket before hitting off the lights and heading off to his bedroom.

He’d been pacing the whole time they’d been on the phone. He was sure Jamie could hear the squeaking of the floors beneath him. It made him feel a bit self-conscious. He wasn’t really that nervous a person, not really, but this situation was different. It was new. And it was confusing as hell.

He’d entered the situation with his mind squarely on sorting out the mess of Coloccini. He had no illusions of anything besides, no intentions at all. He’d hardly thought much of Jamie Carragher before their encounter in the hall, after he gave his testimony. It had been a fine examination, totally essential to their case. And then it was out. Gary had been gutted, livid actually. Months of work down the drain, and it was simply out of his hands. They were lucky to have scraped up enough to charge Coloccini with something to keep him in jail while they pinned the case back together again, but considering the scale of his criminal exploits, it wasn’t a satisfying win. They’d have to do better, and quite frankly, Gary was surprised that Jamie would offer to help.

It wasn’t a personal thing. He wasn’t exactly keen on Scousers as a whole, natural geographic rivalries being what they were. It wasn’t personal, it was just how it was. He’d been expecting Jamie would shrug and take off. It wasn’t his case, not really. He’d only been the arresting officer, not the investigator on the case. But the help was appreciated, and as it turned out, invaluable. Gary’d lost quite a bit of confidence in his own police department, even if he wasn’t about to say as much out loud. There were too many loose ends. They’d uncovered too many holes, and they’d really only put about eight hours of work into it. What else might they discover once they got back together and back on the case?

Of course that meant they’d be back together. The thought made Gary’s guts twist a little. It wasn’t a pang of panic or dread, but… well, it was something he hadn’t felt in a long time and it caught him off guard. He’d been single for awhile now, going on a year and a half, when he’d turned up at his sister’s flat for Easter dinner without his partner in tow.

“What’s happened?” Tracey’d asked, scowling at him. “What’ve you done?”

“I haven’t done anything,” he’d said, taking off his coat.

“Where’s David then?” She tapped her toes impatiently, arms folded, ready to scold.

“He’s left.”

“What do you mean he’s left?” His sister had been aghast. By this point, Phil had joined them in the hall.

“Are you serious?” Phil too was wide eyed.

Gary hated every moment of it. He could stand up to them, sure, but they had this way of surrounding and needling and making everything revert back to when they were kids. Suddenly he was ten years old, pinned in the corner by a pair of brats, unable to lash out at them lest they cry and tattle. He’d kept his face as neutral as he possibly could and only nodded. “Yes, I’m serious and I mean he’s left me for someone else. We weren’t compatible anymore. He wants to lead a different life now and he’s found someone whose goals are more in keeping with his own. So he’s moved out. And we’ve split up. And that’s it.”

Tracey was pale, like she might faint.

Phil looked ready to explode, from shock or outrage or perhaps a bit of amusement. “What the fuck! Gary! What the fuck! Tell me right now, what’s the bloke’s name? I swear to god I’ll kick his ass!”

That was exactly what Gary’d been trying to avoid. Phil’s manners had gone completely to shit ever since he moved away. Liverpool. It had a way of degenerating people. He cleared his throat and gently pushed past his siblings. “Victoria.”

The reaction had been enough to get the pair of them hissing and screeching and lamenting, ‘poor Gary, but don’t you worry, that fucker will come crawling back, you’re better off without him, we never really liked him, he wasn’t good enough for you, etc., etc.’ And they meant well. He understood what they were trying to do. He didn’t need it though. After five years together, the truth was, he and David had simply grown apart. It had been a lovely experience, but deep down, he knew it was for the best.

He didn’t tell his siblings that he’d attended David and Victoria’s wedding the following spring. It was better if they didn’t know, better for them all.

And he wasn’t exactly lonely. He was a social person, he had good friends and he’d been out plenty of times since then. It was never anything serious, and that was perhaps what he’d needed. It was better to be alone awhile and not lose himself completely to anyone else. He’d grown up a bit in that time, he supposed. He’d learned some self-reliance. He’d gained a bit of confidence, too. Gary Neville was not a player, but he could handle himself just fine, thank you very much. He knew what he wanted and he knew where to get it, and the best part of being left for a woman was that the odds of running into his ex in one of those nightspots was essentially zilch. 

Still, he couldn’t rightly explain what had come over him when it came to Jamie Carragher. One moment they were sitting there chatting over beers, and then next thing he knows, he’s throwing out signals before he could properly think. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t really want to. There’d been something, just a moment, when they were sitting on his couch, talking about how Jamie’d become a policeman. He had this look about him, the sort of intensity that he’d always found so completely irresistible. It was as though he’d been struck by lightning, like some asshole Greek god had poked him with an arrow. He hadn’t meant to become all starry-eyed about it, that never really had been his style, and he counted his lucky stars that Jamie hadn’t caught on, least not right away. He’d have been bloody mortified if he’d given it all away, just like that. 

He was mortified enough at having kissed him. God, but he just wanted to, to see what it would be like. And, oi, it had been plenty nice. He’d wanted to kiss him again, and again and again and so on, and to do so much more. But there was a problem, namely that he was a barrister, and he knew full well that shagging one of the detectives on his case was a major no-no. The excuse about Jamie being too drunk had been just that. If any one of them was too drunk, it was Gary himself. He was just unable to shut the logical part of his brain off completely, unable to silence the little voice in his head that was screaming at him not to foul up the case.

He couldn’t explain everything he’d said to Jamie though, couldn’t qualify the promises he’d made using any brand of logic. A day and a half they’d spent together and Gary was already losing his mind. It was sickening, really. How could he be falling for a Scouser? It seemed almost immoral, like a crime against nature. And yet, as he’d spent his evening looking over the boxes of evidence still occupying his kitchen table, his mind returned to Jamie again and again. And it wasn’t just that he found himself wanting to be in his presence for pure physical reasons. Oh no, that would be too easy. It turned out he actually enjoyed the man’s company, even if he could barely understand him after his third beer. It was charming as fuck the way the words slurred out of his mouth and he got all huffy when asked to repeat himself. 

He got huffy, but he repeated himself anyway. Maybe that’s what Gary liked the most. Jamie didn’t seem to shy away from the teasing at all, in fact he doled it right back. And it wasn’t stupid shit either. He was smart. He was observant. And he was a good and decent human being. How many of those were left on the fucking planet? Gary’d been a prosecutor too long, maybe, but he reckoned there weren’t all that many around. Benign people, yes, in spades. But actual good ones? Those were hard to come by, and he’d had one of those in his house, in his arms, wanting to get into his bed and he’d said no. Shit, he was stupid.

But if the case worked out (and it had to, with both of them working it) then he’d do something about it, in earnest, not just for talk. He’d do more than kiss Jamie Carragher. He’d give him the time of his little Scouse life.

Just the thought made him shiver. He actually fucking shivered. Jesus, did he have it bad. Shameful, really. He’d have to be better behaved next time.

He plugged in his phone and laid it on the nightstand before changing for bed, noticing then that there were six missed calls from his brother and no message to accompany them. If it was important, he’d have left a message, so clearly it wasn’t. Gary rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. Leave it to Phil to think of something urgently stupid at 2am. He loved his brother, he did, but he could be mystifying at times. Like his obsession with that damned FIFA game. Gary could admit, he enjoyed playing and he liked the banter, but for Phil it was like a religion. Living amongst the Scouse natives had changed him. It had made his brother go completely insane.

He set his alarm for five-thirty, then thought better of it. Seven-forty-five. He’d go in late, make some excuse about needing to research at home, and bring in some pastries for the crew. It would be fine, he’d be forgiven. And in the meantime, he’d close his eyes, pray that United could recover from the humiliation of the weekend, and pretend that his mind wasn’t wandering to Jamie again.

 

*

Carra arrived at Pepe’s door laden with Chinese take out, a store bought coconut cream pie and a dozen roses for Yolanda. The girls threw open the door and attached themselves to his legs and the noise level in the house was probably driving the neighbors mad, but it was all worth it to see his partner and admire the new baby. He liked kids well enough, and it was fair to say his little goddaughters had him thoroughly trained to bring sweets and other goodies whenever he stopped by for a visit. And no one could mediate a dispute over the last egg roll quite like Uncle Jamie could.

“Here, take the baby, Carra,” Yolanda said, after everyone had finished eating. He balked, but it was too late. She had already plopped him into Carra’s arms. He stared down at the baby, wide eyed and unsure, nervously laughing as he looked up to Pepe for help.

“You’re doing fine. Just don’t drop him,” Pepe grinned.

“I ain’t gonna drop your kid. Have some faith in me, won’t you?” Pepe just laughed again.

Later as he was just about to head home for the night when Pepe pulled him aside. “Stevie said you two went at it last night.”

Carra sniffed. “You’re such a gossip. And you’re believing all the lies those two feed you. Could’ve asked me first, you know.”

“I’m asking you now. What’s going on with you, Carra?” Pepe had this infuriating way of seeming eternally sunny, even when he was trying to be serious and concerned. It drove Carra mad.

He threw his hands up and made a hissing sound. “That weren’t permission for you to start on me too. I’m just as fine as I ever was. Nothing’s different about me, nothing’s changed.”

Pepe narrowed his eyes, like he was deciphering a puzzle, or sussing out some criminal’s web of lies. Carra almost squirmed under the weight of that gaze. “If you say so, Carra. Just keep your head on straight. I’m back from leave next week and I don’t want any messes.”

“Sod off, Pep. I haven’t made any messes. Everything’s in right order. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be scooting out of town again, now would I?” And in that moment, Carra realized he’d given himself away. 

Pepe’s entire face lit up. “A-ha! It’s that barrister, isn’t it? Oh, Carra, you old dog!”

“No, no. I’m working. It’s that case—”

“Xabi was right!”

“What the— no! Fuck Xabi! I’m not doing anything. I’m working!”

“It’s an excuse, Carra. You shouldn’t lie to me.”

“It’s not an excuse. I’ve got to see it all through. The whole thing’s a complete mess, shabby work all around. I’m only helping him with it.” Carra had his hands up still, mea culpa style.

“Uh-huh. That’s you alright. Jamie Carragher, always a professional,” Pepe smirked, leaning confidently against the wall.

“It’s not a lie.”

“Never said it was. But don’t think I’m not on to you. I’ve been your partner for almost six years, Carra. I know how your mind works.” Pepe tapped his finger to his head, for emphasis. “You can’t keep this shit from me, so why bother trying?” He laughed brightly. “God, I’ve missed you. I can’t wait to go back to work.”

Carra sighed, shaking his head. “I missed you up until this very moment, Pepe. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to work in the morning.” He opened the front door. “Give my love to Yo and the kids. And do me one massive favor and next time you see Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, tell to go fuck themselves.”

*

Before bed, he sent Gary Neville a text message saying he’d arrive at the main station on Thursday at noon, one which he agonized over for a full ten minutes before pressing send. Two minutes later, Gary Neville sent him one back confirming the plan. There was a smiley face attached.

“What the fuck,” he gasped, staring at the message. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Shit. Fuck. “A bleeding smiley face? Gary, why?”

With no answers and no one to turn to, he fed his nameless goldfish, crawled into bed, and silently cursed his life.

*

Tuesday seemed to drag on, Wednesday too, and it was Wednesday afternoon when Xabi appeared at his desk, hovering over him like a specter, leveling him with one of those wicked intense stares that absolutely drove Carra mad.

“What do you want, Alonso?” He sighed, dramatically resting his chin on his hand.

“Step outside with me.”

“What? Your boyfriend don’t want to join you on a smoke break?”

“I want to speak with you.”

“Oh my god,” Carra muttered, but he got up anyways and followed Xabi down the hall, down the stairs, and out the side exit to the stoop. It was where Xabi could normally be found, when he wasn't at his desk in the Special Victim’s Unit. It was common knowledge that the Basque bastard liked to sit out there to clear his head and chain smoke. Anyone could see working with rape victims and people who’d been trafficked weighed on him. He was slowly losing parts of himself. Gone was the golden boy who’d arrived a couple of years ago, replaced by someone who was slowly being worn down. Xabi looked older, like he’d aged a decade in a fifth that time. 

Liverpool had a way of doing that, Carra supposed. It sucked the life right out of people, not because it was a bad place or anything. No, it was because of it’s intensity. Everything burned with such brilliance, it was nigh impossible to keep up with it all the time. Carra had trouble with it sometimes, and he’d been born into it. He never could quite figure how the city had managed to sink its claws into the likes of Xabi Alonso.

But then, he reckoned a certain Steven Gerrard might’ve had something to do with all that.

He shut the side door behind them and Xabi handed him a cigarette. Carra didn’t smoke, but he put it in his mouth anyway. Xabi lit it for him.

“Why don’t you like me, Carra?”

Carra coughed, “What?”

Xabi seemed very serene in the fading light of the late afternoon. “You do not like me and I’m not sure why. So that is why I am asking you. Why don’t you like me?”

“I like you just fine. Don’t be daft.”

“Then why don’t you want me and Steven to get married?”

“I…” Carra didn’t know what to say. Stevie’d been right, sort of. He was a bit jealous of them. They made it look so easy, to be in love and be happy. He knew real life wasn’t like that. Love wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t always pretty either. Love was gritty, dirty, tough, and it always, always ended with someone broken hearted and rocked to the core. Carra didn’t have a lot of experience with love, not actual love. Sure, he’d fallen hard before, a few times, but nothing ever lasted. He didn’t mean to be cynical or jealous or any of that. He could only see what he’d seen before, and he’d be damned if he stood by and watched his best mate inevitably get his heart broken.

“Do you love him? Is that it?”

Carra was brought back to reality then, shaken enough that he almost dropped his cigarette to the ground. “Wha—?”

“Is that why you hate me? Because I stole him from you?” Xabi somehow commanded his gaze, kept him trapped with those spooky amber eyes of his. Now matter how he tried, Carra couldn’t look away. 

“You didn’t… no. No.” He clenched his jaw, not sure if he wanted to smack Xabi for being so stupid or smack him for being right. 

He did love Stevie, he did. Not the way Xabi did, mind, but Stevie meant the world to him, and once, back in the day, he’d thought maybe someday they’d wind up together. It was a stupid thought, impractical, not actually a remote possibility, when he really thought about it, but it had once been planted nonetheless, and the reality hadn’t really hit him until Xabi came along and Stevie fell head over heels in a matter of seconds.

Carra’d had a front row seat to all of it and it made him feel sick. If he were to be honest with himself, he’d admit that he was jealous. But he didn’t want to be honest. He just wanted to run away, get the hell out of Liverpool, go to Manchester, forget all about everything that had gone on before and get on with it.

Xabi, meanwhile, was still staring him down. It was like something out of a spaghetti western, two men in a standoff as the sun burned a brilliant orange across the horizon. There weren’t many nights like that in Liverpool. If either of them had a lick of sense, they’d quit with the nonsense and enjoy the sky.

Carra waited, hoping Xabi would speak, end the hideous silence that had befallen them, but Xabi said nothing. Unable to stand another moment, Carra finally broke. “You want me to apologize?”

“No. You don’t owe me an apology.”

“Then what do you want, Xabi?” His voice cracked, fully desperate now.

“You hurt him, Carra.” Xabi had a sort of detached coldness to him, the kind of tone that made it quite clear he knew how to hit a person in their most vulnerable places. Carra wanted to scream.

“Fuck me!”

“You’re his best friend, Carra.” Xabi dropped his spent cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. 

“I know I am,” Carra whined. “And he’s mine, and…”

“He's going to ask me on my birthday,” Xabi said, fishing another cigarette out of his pack. “He doesn’t know that I know that.”

Carra threw his hands up in the air, “What do you want from me, Xabi?”

“I want you to come.”

He stared at Xabi, narrowed his eyes, huffing at him. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, Alonso.”

Xabi exhaled a plume of smoke, tilting his chin so that he was looking down at him. “I would like for you to be there with us. You are his best friend, and, I have always thought that you are my friend too. And I would like you to be there, on my birthday, when we become engaged. Won’t you be there for him? For me?”

And then it hit him, like a rock over the head. Xabi had been his friend the entire time. He’d made every effort, visited him, spent time looking after him, done all the stupid little things that friends did, and how had Carra repaid him? By mocking him endlessly, rolling his eyes, letting the little sprite of jealousy grow and grow and grow into a full blown demon. Xabi loved Stevie, therefore he also loved Carra. 

“Oh my god,” he said, rather stupidly.

Xabi only watched him, slowly taking a drag.

Carra shook his head, then nodded quickly. What a phenomenal jackass he’d been. What a shite friend. Oi, it was embarrassing. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever live it down. “Yes, Xabi. Yes, I’ll come.”

“Will you be happy for us?”

“Of course I will, you fool. Of course. I am happy for you.” It wasn’t quite true, not yet, but he wasn’t a heartless. He’d come around.

Xabi didn’t react outwardly, except for a small quirk of his eyebrow. “Steven will call you with the details then. Don’t forget that you’ve promised to come, Carra.”

“I won’t forget.”

Xabi stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the door. “And have a good time in Manchester, won’t you? We’ll see you on Monday.”

*

He’d sent off a quick text to Gary before boarding an earlier train. With the way that conversation with Xabi had gone, Carra felt the desire to run, and so he heeded it. He’d gone home right away and shoved some clothes into his bag before buying a ticket on an evening train. He arrived at the station at 8pm and met Gary at his car.

“Just couldn’t stay away, huh?” Gary grinned, looking a bit nervous.

Carra toss his bag into the back seat, grunting a little.

“Eh, well, don’t take it out on me, mate.”

“I’m not,” he said, buckling in. “Just had a shite day with me shite mates and I wasn’t doing anything useful there anyways. Figured you might need some help here.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Gary said as they pulled out.

Carra almost smiled. He might’ve, if he weren’t feeling so rotten inside. He was glad to be with Gary though, for whatever that was worth. There was still a sort of unresolved tension there, just hanging between them, but it was the good sort of tension. An anticipatory type thing. He could handle that well enough, it was the other kind he couldn’t bother with.

They didn’t say much on the drive to Gary’s place, and it was fine. Carra had to admit, he was tired anyways, and the silence was comforting. Every so often, Gary would say something, and he’d smirk and snort in agreement, and a couple of times he even laughed. After the hideous encounter he’d had with Xabi, it felt nice to really laugh.

“Come on, let’s get inside,” Gary said as he put the car in park. “I’ve got something interesting you should get a look at.”

Carra’s mind went someplace dirty for a moment before he recognized that Gary wasn’t teasing him. Deflating slightly, he slung his bag over his shoulder and followed him to the door.

“My contact at the precinct tracked down one of Coloccini’s known associates.” Gary flipped on the lights and the two of them headed to the kitchen table, where the boxes of evidence were still strewn about. Carra took a seat, looking over a new paper atop the pile. It was a mugshot and the arrest data for a young man with bright eyes and a sweet, almost angelic smile.

“Sergio Agüero,” he read. “Also known as Kun. Arrested two years ago for unpaid parking fines.” He frowned, looking up to Gary. “And he’s connected to Coloccini how?”

Gary pointed to Kun’s last known address. “Look here, mate. He lives next door to our suspect’s mother and they’re all from Argentina.” 

“That might be a coincidence.”

“It might be, but it isn’t. Kun’s a well known figure around Manchester.”

Carra looked surprised, “What’s he? A criminal? A gangster?”

Gary laughed, heading to the stove to put the water on. “Him? Oh no. He’s a dancer. He stars in a cabaret at a club called the Casa Azul.”

Carra cackled, “What? Him? Really?” Gary looked back at him, nodding. “Is he any good?”

“Hell if I know. I’ve never been there.”

“Right, but what’s this all got to do with Coloccini?”

Gary walked back to him, shuffling through some of the papers. “Coloccini was a member of Kun’s entourage up until he left for Liverpool, when you arrested him. A back-up dancer or something.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“That’s a terrifying thought,” Carra snickered.

“I know,” Gary snickered back. They met each other’s gaze just then, maybe for a moment too long. Gary looked away then, back to the paper he’d pulled free. It was a print out of a flyer, advertising Kun, live on stage, Thursdays through Saturdays. “I was thinking perhaps we should pay Señor Agüero a visit tomorrow. Perhaps he can give a name to our mystery redhead.”

“I like how you think, Neville,” Carra said, sitting back in his chair, tilting his chin so that he was angled just so. Gary’s mouth twitched a little, like he wanted to smile, but wouldn’t. Instead he leaned forward, the space between them disappearing, lips about to touch.

And then the kettle began whistling and they both jumped back, like students caught by a schoolmaster.

Gary gave him a smile before getting the water and fixing them tea. Carra groaned, frustrated. It was better this way, he decided. Better they get some actual work done before ripping at each other’s clothes and wasting the weekend fucking like rabbits, lovely as that prospect sounded. Besides, wasn’t delayed gratification supposed to be a thing that people liked? Stevie’d lecture him on it once or twice. Patience, Jamie. Slow down. Enjoy the tease. It’s so much better when you take your time. He’d hated the concept back then, but he could see the appeal now. 

God, but he wanted to shag Gary. It’d been so long since he’d been with anyone, and even longer since he’d been with anyone meaningful. And it was so infuriating how Gary was so at ease with himself, so relaxed as he moved around his kitchen, so confident as he spoke. It was almost like he wasn’t even bothered by the fact that Carra very obviously wanted to take him to his bedroom and fuck his brains out. It was almost like he knew and was completely fine with continuing on, business as usual. 

And Carra knew that Gary knew that Carra knew that Gary knew that Carra wanted him. He could tell, the way Gary cast his eyes back at him, trying to be all subtle. He wasn’t being subtle. He was being obvious. But he was also being smug about it, cooking pasta at the stove instead of coming back to Carra and kissing him properly. 

Finally, he could stand it no longer. Carra got up from his seat and walked straight to Gary, who’d just put the wooden spoon on the rest. Carra grabbed Gary by the waist and pulled him sharply toward him, pleased at how easily the other man complied.

“I want to kiss you,” Carra said, heart pounding like a locomotive engine, almost drowning out all of the other noises of the world. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you all week.”

Gary actually had the nerve to laugh at him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “It’s only been four days, you knob.”

“It’s been four days too long. And you didn’t kiss me goodbye, you Manc cunt. I wanted me a goodbye kiss.”

“You can have a goodbye kiss when you leave again,” Gary smirked, running the pads of his fingers along Carra’s jaw, almost reverent.

“You’re teasing me,” Carra said, nearly pouting. He didn’t want to, he just couldn’t help it. He never did have a good face for poker.

“Of course I’m teasing you. Daft. I know you’re Scouse, but I reckoned you’d be sharper than all this.”

Carra opened his mouth to protest, only to be cut off when Gary’s lips met his. Suddenly, the teasing was forgotten and the only thing on his mind was the urgent need to kiss Gary, hold him tighter, press their bodies together, screw everything else. It was one of those slow kisses, like it was a fucking period romance and they were caught in some rainstorm, sheltered under a bloody gazebo, or out on the wiley, windy moors or some such rubbish. Carra’d never kissed anyone like that in his life. Not once, not ever. And here he was, back against the kitchen sink, kissing some Manc like his entire life depended on it. It was the greatest feeling in the world.

Gary pulled away then, with the sort of languid care only shared between lovers, smiling as he cradled Carra’s face in his hands. “Oh, Jamie.”

“Yeah?” His voice was soft as he tried to catch his breath.

“It’s not the weekend, Jamie.”

Carra was genuinely confused, searching Gary’s eyes for something, anything that might clarify it all. “What?”

“I don’t want you getting any wrong ideas, mate. I said we could fuck this weekend. It’s only Wednesday.” And with that, Gary gave him a devastating, shit-eating sort of grin and extracted himself from Carra’s arms so he could stir the pasta again.

So that was it. That was what it all came down to. Rejected, in favor of a pasta dish. Carra could only watch in utter distress as Gary blatantly ignored him, and as he watched a terrible thought occurred to him. He could actually fall for this guy. He shuddered involuntarily and slinked away, back to the table, hoping it wasn’t written all over his stupid, obvious face.

*

Dinner was fine. They slept in separate rooms. When Carra finally fell asleep, he had a dream with Stevie in it, shaking him by the shoulders and shouting “I told you so!” right in his face.

*

There was work to be done before heading to the Casa Azul to interview Kun. 

“Your assault victim’s here,” Gary said over coffee. 

“Who?”

He set the cup down, pointing to one of the documents on the table. “The fella you popped Coloccini for beating. Got a text from my mate at the station last night saying he’s come back here to visit.”

Carra stared at the photograph of the awkward looking kid with thick eyebrows and a terrible, ratty looking mullet. It was the photo from the hospital, right after Coloccini had beaten the shit out of him. His face was all cut up, mouth bloodied. He looked a right mess. “Oh right. Him. What’s he doing here anyways? Thought he was staying in London.”

“You can ask him that yourself. Come on, get your coat on. I’ve got the address.”

*

The kid, Francesc Fàbregas, was staying in some shabby little apartment with a couple of other expat brats, César & Diego. The name on the lease was Gerard Piqué, and that was who greeted them at the door. He was an imposing fellow, tall and gangly and not exactly prepared to have a cop and a barrister arrive at his door at 10am, as evidenced by his opening the door in only his boxer shorts.

Gary and Carra both tried not to stare.

“Cesc,” he yelled back into the apartment. They could hear some lazy groans from inside, and three sleepy heads poking out to see what the commotion was all about. “Wake up. There’s a policeman looking for you.”

Twenty minutes later they were at a coffee shop around the corner, buying the kid a latte. He recognized Carra straight away, and even recalled Gary from meeting him at the courthouse before, and despite the unusual circumstance, he seemed unperturbed to be speaking to them.

“So yes, that’s how I am in Manchester,” he said, recounting a very long and unnecessarily detailed story of how he’d relocated to Manchester earlier in the month on the advice of friends, to find a better job. He wanted to start over again, after running into some trouble in London, but he had a new job and an apartment with an old friend from Barcelona who didn’t mind putting him up until he got himself settled. 

“Cesc,” Gary said, looking as sympathetic and kindly as he might with a reluctant witness. “Can you just remind me and Detective Carragher why you were in Liverpool that night?”

“Which night?” Cesc said, slowly blinking.

“The night you were in Coloccini’s car. The night I happened on you,” Carra said.

“Oh. Well, I was going to a concert.”

“A concert?” Gary furrowed his brows.

“Yes. Eh, well. More like a… rave.”

“A rave.” Gary was unimpressed.

“Yes. Some friends wanted to go, and I decided I should too.” He sipped his drink, a bit of whipped cream sticking to his nose, causing him to giggle. “That is where I met him. Fabricio, I mean. We had acquaintances in common and so we were talking and then he said he would drive me to the train depot.”

“And that’s when he assaulted you.”

Cesc nodded. “I don’t even recall what I said to him that made him so angry. He just went off. Boom. Like a… explosion. A firecracker.”

Gary jotted something down on a napkin. “You’d never met him before that day?”

The Catalan shook his head. “As I said. A friend of a friend of a friend, really. He seemed very nice. Eh, polite, yes? But he suddenly snapped at me.”

“Which friends do you have in common?” Gary asked.

“Huh?” Cesc looked confused. “You mean who do I know that he knows?”

“Yes. We’d like to talk to Coloccini’s friends.”

“Are they…” Cesc trailed off, looking to Carra for guidance, big brown eyes wide and imploring. “They will not be in any trouble, will they?”

Carra quirked a brow at him. “Assuming they’re good kids and haven’t done anything wrong. We’re not going to bother otherwise. We just need to clear up a few things with the boys who know him best.”

The boy looked a little apprehensive before spouting off some names as Gary wrote them down on the napkin. Most of them were Spanish, none of them familiar.

As they were leaving, both Gary and Carra gave Cesc their cards. He smiled, stealing Gary’s pen to write his new phone number on Carra’s hand. “In case I can help you again,” he said, beaming before practically waltzing out the door.

“That kid’s a mess,” Gary said, shaking his head at Carra.

“He was a lot messier when I first met him. Can’t believe his nose ain’t crooked anymore. Looks better.” He looked down at his hand then, squinting to read the numbers. On second thought, he was a disaster.

Gary made a face at him. Carra looked over in surprise.

“I think he fancies you,” Gary said, sounding quite superior and none too happy about it.

“What?” Carra laughed. “Who? D’you mean Cesc?”

“I do mean Francesc Fàbregas, yes.”

Carra only laughed some more. Gary stared at him, wounded. “You’re not serious! Christ, no! You’ve lost it now, Neville.”

“He was making eyes at you the whole time.”

“He was not.”

“He was, Jamie. And how he took you by the hand before he left…”

Carra gasped, he was laughing so hard. “For crying out loud, Gary! He wasn’t, and even if he was, who cares? It don’t make any difference, ‘cause I wasn’t making eyes at him back.”

Gary stared at him, visibly red, like he might huff and puff or even explode. 

It occurred to Carra then that Gary might actually have been jealous of the little twit. He stopped laughing (or tried to) and slung his arm around Gary’s shoulder. “Easy, mate. I’m not interested in him. I didn’t even ask him for a goodbye kiss or anything.”

“Jamie,” Carra said, voice low, a warning. They were in public, other patrons were around, glancing over every time Carra laughed. 

Carra only smiled at him, then leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the mouth before pulling away. “I only have eyes for you, you dirty Manc. Now come on. We’ve got an appointment with Kun Agüero and I’d hate for us to miss a single moment of his performance.”

*

Jamie surely didn’t miss the less than sly glances Gary kept sending him on the way over to Casa Azul. He really ought to have been more subtle about it. Stupid, Gaz, stupid. Internally he was kicking himself for his momentary lapse of judgment, but that little Catalan twerp was clearly trying to put the moves on his man. 

Okay, so Jamie wasn’t technically his man, they had only kissed and they hadn’t even actually gone out on a proper date, but Gary figured it was only really a matter of time before things progressed. Yes, he’d been the one to say they should wait before getting physical, but there was always the implied promise that they would. And he meant to keep that promise. They were both interested. They both wanted each other. Clearly Jamie was his. Clearly Gary had dibs.

He had to admit, his antics at the café were rather amusing, the way he’d laughed off Fàbregas’ advances and kissed Gary for good measure. Ugh, he was getting all light-headed just thinking about it, which was highly inconvenient given he was trying to find a decent place to park within a reasonable walking distance of the nightclub. It was still mid-afternoon, but it being a Thursday, the traffic was absolutely ghastly. They’d circled the same six block radiance no less than ten times trying to find a place to park.

“I hate this fucking part of town,” Gary hissed, watching helplessly as someone stole the spot he’d already signaled was his. “It’s like they’ve completely lost touch with reality. Or that they can’t remember what a turn signal means. I’ve got mine on! Where’s your blinker you shambolic cretin? Do you see this? Did I not have mine on? Did that women just completely ignore me?”

“She saw you and she ignored you,” Jamie said, quite amused. “And you’re getting all worked up.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah you are. Look at you, all wound up. You’ve turned red again.”

“No I haven’t.”

Jamie laughed. “You want to pull over and let me drive?”

“If there were a place to pull over, I’d have parked in it by now.” Gary spotted another potential parking place then and switched on his signal. “Stay out of the way, you bastards! It’s mine!”

At last, with the car parked and secured, they trudged the few blocks back toward the club, shivering a little in the late autumn chill.

The Casa Azul stood out for three reasons. Firstly, it was clearly a newer building than the others nearby, the mid-aught steel architecture standing in stark contrast to the older, brick and mortar buildings which surrounded it. Secondly, the club had been painted sky-blue. No other buildings nearby came close to the color, which seemed bright and cheerful, even with the grey clouds of November overhead. And thirdly were the people. Even at half-past two the sidewalk outside the club was alive with people from all walks of life, gathered around, laughing, talking. The Casa Azul, it seemed, was a beacon in the otherwise bleak sea that was the rest of Manchester.

Gary loathed it the moment they were within sight of it. Jamie only smirked.

“Looks like fun,” he said, nudging Gary along. 

“Looks like a nightmare,” Gary muttered, hopping to keep in step. 

They made their way through the crowd, pushing past the throngs of people who were all apparently gathered early in hopes of catching a glimpse of the famous and well-loved Kun. Some in the number were unhappy about the men pushing through, but a flash of Jamie’s badge took care of that quickly enough. Gary smiled, satisfied. Jamie glanced back at him and smiled too, and Gary felt all giddy again. Fuck.

They approached the door and Jamie reached to open it, only to have it pushed back at him, almost striking him in the face. He stumbled back a step or two, Gary reaching out to steady him, and they both looked back to find themselves face to face with a scowling man in a purple silk kimono and a matching turban on his head and very little else, bare chest exposed, with half a dozen golden chains around his neck. He was shorter than both of them, but that somehow didn’t seem to faze him any. He just stood there, hands on his hips, posed like something out of a Japanese cartoon, blocking the entrance entirely.

“I’m sorry gentlemen, but we are not open right now. You’ll have to wait outside until the show begins.” His English was impeccable, save for the slightest inflection of Spanish.

“We’re not here for that,” Gary said, already dreading the situation.

“We’re here to speak to—” 

“Let me guess. You are here to speak to Kun.” The man lifted his chin, a certain knowing look to his eyes.

“That’s right,” Jamie began.

The man snorted. “You types always are.” Gary frowned. What was that supposed to mean? “Well, you will have to wait until after the final curtain. Kun does not allow any visitors before the show.”

“We’re not admiring fans of his, if that’s what you’re implying.” Gary pointedly looked past the kimono-clad doorman.

At that point Jamie held up his badge. “I’m Detective Carragher. This is my associate, Mister Neville. We have an urgent need to speak to Mister Agüero.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward to examine the badge. “This says you’re from Merseyside,” he declared dismissively.

“I am from Merseyside,” Jamie said coolly.

“The last time I checked, we were in Manchester.”

“Oh for crying out—”

“Easy, Gary, I got this.” Jamie put his badge away, purposefully looking the man over. “Listen to me, mate, and this here is the only word I’m liable to give you. I’m a police officer from Liverpool, that’s true, but I’m still a police officer, and I’m investigating a crime here, and I’ve a pressing need to speak with Mister Agüero. Now, either you allow us in to speak with him right now, or my friend the prosecutor and I will have you brought up on charges of hampering an ongoing investigation. This may not be Liverpool, but I’m still the law, mate. Now step aside, or am I going to have to file some charges.”

Gary stood there, utterly dumbfounded, fully aware that Jamie was half-way talking out his ass, but absolutely living for it. After a moment of standing there like an awestruck git, he found himself grinning, giddy, and feeling vaguely evil. Was it an abuse of authority? Probably, but seeing Jamie lay into the guy was kind of hot.

The doorman, on the other hand, looked absolutely livid, shouting out so that the crowd behind them could hear. “You want to arrest me? All right then. Arrest me. I shall put up no fight, but here, before these witnesses, I will only declare that I have done nothing but defend the sanctity of a great artist and his right to be left in peace!”

All around them, the spectators began to murmur. Gary glanced back at them, suddenly quite aware that they were outnumbered.

“Arrest me then, so-called ‘officer of the law’! It is what you are meant for, the die has been cast, has it not? You can only play your part, as can I! Seize me, as one might seize the day!”

Jamie looked to Gary, blanching a little. “I don’t even have me cuffs on me.”

Gary made a horrified face.

“What are you waiting for! Take me away!”

“Shit,” Jamie said. Gary agreed with the sentiment entirely. Behind them, the crowd was growing restless and more disgruntled by the second.

“What the hell’s going on out here?”

Everyone (save the doorman) looked to the entryway again, seeing a new figure making his way to the door. An exceptionally tall man, tanned, with golden blond hair and a dark, tailored suit, gently urging the doorman aside. He had an air about him. Rich, but cheap, the kind who had money and liked to show if off. Gary took an instant dislike to him.

“Oh, Harty, it’s awful!” The doorman cried, attaching himself to the man’s arm in an instant. “The police are here and they’ve threatened to lock me up!”

The man (“Harty”) looked to the kimono-man and pulled a face. “Why? What’ve you done this time?”

“I haven’t done anything other than devote myself truly and honestly to my art!”

“I hardly believe that, Zaba. Now step aside and I’ll handle this.” The doorman (“Zaba”) pouted a little but complied, shrinking away a step or two, leaving Gary and Jamie to look up to the Adonis before them. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said extending his hand. “I’m Joe Hart, the owner of this place. How can I help you?”

“Jamie Carragher, from the Merseyside Police Department.” Jamie showed his badge again, then pointed to Gary. “And this is my associate, from your local prosecutor’s office.”

“Gary Neville,” he said, shaking Joe’s hand.

Joe raised his eyebrows. “I see. And what brings you here to Casa Azul?”

“We need to speak to Sergio Agüero,” Gary said, patience all but lost. “It’s regarding an ongoing investigation and we’ll be needing a few minutes of his time.”

“Well,” Joe said, stepping aside, “I think we can arrange for that.”

Behind him, Zaba let out an indignant squawk. “But Joey, darling! They were incredibly rude to me!”

“You’re being histrionic, Zaba,” Joe said, leading Gary and Jamie through the door. “Now be a good employee and lock the doors behind us. We can’t have any other unexpected visitors today. That’s a good boy.”

They heard the clicking of the lock as they followed Joe Hart down the dark, narrow corridor, Jamie a half pace behind Gary. It was surprisingly long, with black lights marking the way until they reached grand and ornately carved wooden double doors, shut tight with beautiful indigo colored velvet curtains on either side. Joe turned the old brass knob and slowly pulled one of the doors open.

“Watch your step, gentlemen. And welcome to Casa Azul.”

*

The only word to aptly describe the interior of the Casa Azul was spectacular. The wooden doors led to what had once been an old dance hall, now rehabbed into a marvelous disco wonderland. The old dark woodwork remained, combined with a sleek black and chrome theme, accented with all sorts of brilliant shades of blue. There had to be a dozen or more disco balls suspended from the ceilings, and the lighting of the room was kept to cooler tones. Near the entry was the bar, one of those old fashioned wrap-around bars with a white marble top. It probably cost a small fortune to put in. In the center of the room was a dance floor; to the right and left were tables, with chairs angled to see the main stage, which was in the very back. It was huge, big enough to accommodate a multi-piece swing band, not that those were in vogue much anymore. On the ceiling above the dance floor was a replica of the Creation of Adam.

Carra was left speechless. He’d never seen such unnecessary excess in his life and he had to admit he was impressed. Gary, on the other hand, seemed unmoved. 

“Please, let’s have a seat and see if we can’t get this all sorted,” Joe said, leading them to a table right in front of the stage. As the three men sat, a fourth appeared, placing a bottle of whiskey and three glasses down before disappeared in a flurry of fabric. Joe seemed unbothered by this, setting about pouring drinks for the three of them. 

Gary eyed his glass, rather suspicious. Carra shrugged and drank his. 

“Now, you two said you wanted to speak to Kun.”

“That’s right,” Gary said. "We’re investigating a series of break-ins and we’ve reason to believe Mister Agüero is familiar with our suspect. We mean only to ask him a few quick questions and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

Joe nodded, taking a drink. “I’m sure he’d be glad to speak to you.”

“Terrific. Why not get him here then?” Gary asked.

“Ah, well,” Joe said, mischief in his eyes. “You’ve come at an inopportune time. We’re debuting a new act tonight and the dress rehearsal is just about to start.”

Carra snorted into his glass. “What.”

“We’ll only be a couple of minutes,” Gary said, almost alarmed.

“I’m afraid we’re on a very tight schedule. This is our only chance to do a full run-through before the first show. You understand, a lot of money’s gone into this production. Our investors will be extremely upset if there’s any sort of delay.”

“This isn’t a joke, Mister Hart,” Gary squawked. “This is a pressing and urgent legal matter.”

Joe Hart stood up from his chair then, suddenly looming over the pair of them. For the first time, Carra fully appreciated the man’s stature, and to be quite honest, he found himself slightly intimidated. Not in terms of consequences, oh no. He was a police officer, he could handle himself well enough, and he had a certain sense about him, knowing that in the end the badge in his pocket allowed him a certain authority. But as an actual man? Heh, well. It was hard to feel in control when a bronzed statue come to life was staring him down. From his chair beside Carra, Gary seemed to be experiencing something similar. As Joe circled the table, he came to stand behind both of them, and as he did, all of the lights went out and the room became pitch black.

“I understand pressing and urgent legal matters just fine. You see, I’ve got some legal matters of my own. Contracts, from my investors, which state a dress rehearsal must be performed before the new show can debut. If this dress rehearsal doesn’t happen, those investors can sue me and shut this place down. There’s hundreds of thousands of pounds at stake here, gentlemen, and I’m not about to lose that money. Now, if you’ll both please turn your attention to the stage, our show is about to begin.”

*

The show was. Well it was an enlightening experience, to say the least. Between the flashing lights, piped in fog, and the swirling disco balls, it was almost hard to focus on the scene that was unfolding on stage. Carra glanced over at Gary, who too seemed to be out of sorts. Behind them, Joe Hart stood, clapping his hands, grinning like a fucking madman.

Then the music began to play. The mournful wail of electric guitar, followed by piano and chimes and drums, all crescendoing into a frantic, driving disco beat.

“Oh my god,” Gary said, loud enough for all to hear.

“Shhhh,” Joe hissed, clapping along to the music.

Then, from the dark of the stage, three figures appeared, full black velvet cloaks obscuring them completely. As the stage lights went up, they shed them, revealing three identically clad dancers in coordinated silver sequined bodysuits. In the center, and just ahead of the other two, stood a familiar face, beaming and beautiful under the blue stage lights. It was Kun.

Carra stared, slack-jawed, unable to think. What the fuck was he witnessing?

It was a full song and dance number, with perfectly executed choreography from his tall and tanned co-stars, twirling, spinning, and clapping as Kun pulled out all the stops in a surprisingly capable rendition of some forgotten show tune. As the lights dimmed, the Argentine disappeared from the stage, replaced by a troop of six other dancers, performing an interlude as they reset the stage with chairs. A moment later, Kun returned to stage in a revealing little black ensemble and bowler hat to perform a faithful impression of Liza Minnelli. 

Was he supposed to be gaping? Because he was. Carra was absolutely gaping at them, and he would have continued doing so if Gary hadn’t elbowed him sharply, snapping him out of it. Gary leaned toward Carra to say something and Carra followed suit to listen, only for them to be interrupted by Joe Hart’s hands landing on each of their shoulder, effectively shutting the up and separating them.

After another interlude, Kun was joined onstage by Zaba, and they performed a duet, with Zaba taking the part of Sky Masterson and Kun the part of Sister Sarah Brown. The harmonies were beautiful. Carra didn’t know shit about music, but even he could appreciate the quality of what he was hearing and seeing. Kun, as it turned out, was a hell of a showman, even with an audience of three, and his backing dancers weren’t half bad either. Even Zaba, drama queen that he was, nailed the performance.

And it seemed to fly by, too, number after number, each one good enough to be called a showstopper, and it all came to a head when the music switched to a tango and Kun underwent another costume change, switching to a tuxedo, performing an impressive interpretive dance number. It then switched pace again, to become a tribute to Broadway and West End musical hits, capped off by Kun and Zaba in the roles of Roxie and Velma, tap dancing with bedazzled tommy gun props. The final act of his revue was an honest to god burlesque fan dance and strip tease. Using the massive blue colored ostrich feather fans he performed the strip tease, ultimately revealing Kun in only tasseled pasties and a nude rhinestone thong.

After Kun took his final bows, the lights went up and Joe burst into a round of applause. Both still completely uneasy with what they’d witnessed, Gary and Carra exchanged a look before politely clapping as well.

“Marvelous! That was terrific!” Joe cried rushing the stage to offer a hand to his star, who had returned to the stage in a silk robe, similar to the one Zaba had been wearing, though he still wore the ornate headpiece he’d had on for the fan dance.

“I don’t know,” Kun said quietly, eyes lowered shyly as he descended the stairs and strutted across the dance floor. “I didn’t hit the right cue during the medley and Nico nearly stepped on Micho’s foot during the opener and if he does that in the actual show, I might have a meltdown on stage. But I won’t, and do you know why? It’s because I’m a professional, Harty. I do my damn job. And I expect a certain level of professionalism…” 

“Yes, I know, Kun. I promise I’ll have a nice chat with them before opening,” Joe said, leading Kun by the arm to the table where Carra and Gary still sat, dumbfounded. 

“I’m just so tired of having to carry everyone on my back,” Kun said, holding fast to Joe’s arm. It might’ve looked funny if he weren’t so serious about it. “I take my work very seriously and I want everything to be perfect, or as close to perfect as those clods can get. It’s not too much to ask, is it, Joey?”

“Of course not,” he said, beaming at him protectively. “You just leave it to me. I’ll take care of them and they’ll put on a show like this city has never seen. Now, darling—” 

“I knew I could count on you,” Kun smiled, ignoring Carra and Gary, doe eyes fixed on Joe. “Which reminds me. There’s a problem with the lighting during the fourth tap dance number. Do you think you can get them to make it a little more purple? I think once we get the glitter going—”

“Anything you want,” Joe smiled, then gestured to the table, where Carra and Gary sat patiently. “But first, these gentlemen have been waiting to speak to you.”

The Argentine wrinkled his nose, looking back at Joe, eyes wide with panic. “Who are these people? Are they from the theater review? Oh my god why didn’t you tell me there’d be critics here for a preview?! Joe! How could you!”

Joe chuckled, putting a soothing hand on Kun’s shoulder, “No, no, darling. This is Detective Carragher and his associate, Mister Neville, from the local prosecutor’s office.”

Kun blinked a few times, then brushed past Joe toward the table, a dazzling smile pasted on his face. “How do you do? My name’s Kun.” They both stood and exchanged introductions properly and explained why the were there.

He nodded, elegantly beckoning them to follow him. “Come, we can speak in my salon. I still must apply my make-up. I hope you won’t mind my multi-tasking.”

Seeing as they had little options if they wanted to keep their visit as brief as possibly, Gary and Carra went after Kun, leaving Joe behind to lecture the backing dancers about the importance of getting their timing just right.

Carra followed first, with Gary right behind as they made their way through a side door, hidden by a wall panel. The secret doorway led to a narrow hallway with several smaller rooms tucked away. Kun led them to the last door on the left, which had his name painted on it.

“This way,” he said, holding back the beaded curtains to allow them into his dressing room. It had one of those eclectic sort of feels to it, with fabrics and feathers draped about, the warm yellow lighting and low ceiling adding to the cavernous effect. Instead of chairs there were several oversized pillows on the floor. Instead of a regular vanity, Kun’s dressing table was a coffee table with a mirror and a wide selection of make up. He bade the men to sit down and he did as well, taking his place at the mirror.

Carra and Gary stood there watching him for a moment before taking seats on the pillows. It was all a little surreal, like they’d somehow wandered into an alternate dimension where this sort of thing was expected. Carra stole a glance at Gary, chuckling a bit at how discombobulated he looked, sitting crossed legged on the pillow, so out of his element. He had to admit it was almost charming.

“I’ll be happy to tell you all I can about my neighbor. Poor Señora has been so heartbroken ever since the arrest, you know, but it’s just not right to become a criminal,” he said as he first lit some incense, then began to apply his foundation. 

“Well, we’ve got plenty of questions,” Gary said, clearly having had more than enough of the shenanigans.

“Yeah,” Carra joined in. “Like how do you two get on. Are you two mates, or…”

Kun looked over his shoulder at them, eyes crinkled with laughter. “Mates? Hardly.”

“But you know his mother,” Gary said.

“Well, yes. She is my neighbor. I know many people in my neighborhood.”

“Right,” Carra said. He had his notepad out again. “But didn’t he used to work here? As a dancer?”

Kun was back to admiring his reflection. “If you call what he did dancing, then yes. It was a temporary thing only. He wasn’t very good. Not up to my standards.”

“I see.”

“What about your other dancers? Are they friends with him?” Gary asked.

“No, not really,” Kun said, drawing on his eyebrows. “I am not sure if you know this, but I am a professional, and I expect the people I work with to be professionals, too. Fabricio Coloccini couldn’t hack it as a professional dancer. He couldn’t hack it as a professional waiter. He couldn’t even hack it as a professional bouncer, and you know how tall he is. The people here, we are very good at what we do. We’re artists; we perform. That is what we are paid to do. If you can’t show up on time, have terrible rhythm, refuse to rehearse on your own, whatever, then you cannot work on my stage.”

“So he was fired for poor work performance?”

Kun laughed, “Oh, no. Joe Hart is too nice for his own good. He wouldn’t fire Fabricio, even though Fabricio was terrible at everything he did. Same thing with Zaba’s ex. That idiot kept his job behind the bar for months and he couldn’t even make a Shirley Temple. Listen, Fabricio is very good at one thing: stealing. Just ask Micho. His phone was stolen one night and Harty found it in Fabricio’s locker after we closed. He was fired for theft, right on the spot. It took him long enough to do it.”

Gary raised his eyebrows, “And no one reported it to the police?”

“The fewer cops in this place, the better,” Kun said, glancing back at Carra with a smile. “No offense, officer.”

Carra made a face back, then looked to Gary, who was watching him closely. Carra smirked at him.

“Right then,” Gary said, still looking at Carra. “Do you know any of his associates? Any friends of Fabricio’s who might be willing to speak with us?”

Kun shook his head, “I’m sorry, I really don’t. I did him a favor, you know, getting him the job here, because I like his mother and she is a fine lady in the neighborhood, but Fabricio isn’t like us. He’s not one I would befriend, not someone I’d even really care to know. You should ask the other boys though, Zaba and Micho and Nico. Perhaps they know more than I do, but I doubt it.”

On that disappointing note, they thanked Kun for his time, and after taking a few pages of notes while confirming the stories from the other dancers and handing out cards with their numbers, and the request the request to contact them with any pertinent information. After exchanging brief words and offering their apologies to Joe Hart, they were ready to at last depart.

And not a moment too soon for Gary. The crowd outside had swelled to comical proportions, all in line to see the show. As they forced their way through, Gary’s tolerance took a hit.

“Police coming through, get out of the damn way!” He yelled, grabbing Carra by the elbow to lead him through the throngs. Carra had to stumble to keep up with them, shouting out that he was so, sorry, urgent police business, while waving his badge lazily.

Gary finally slowed down when they were a block away, Carra’s weight dragging on him until they were forced to come to stop at the street corner. “Calm down, Gary,” he said, somewhere between concerned and entertained by him. “It’s all right.”

“It was a bloody waste of time,” Gary hissed, turning sharply round the corner, pulling Carra along with him. “We’ve wasted hours with this stupidity and we have nothing to show for it. We’re no closer to finding Coloccini’s accomplices now than we were on Saturday.”

Carra jerked himself free at last, causing Gary to stop and turn back to face him. “Don’t be daft. It wasn’t a waste,” Carra said. He shook a finger at him, then poked him in the chest, making Gary blink.. “You’ve got a half a dozen names from Cesc, didn’t you?”

Gary frowned a little, then shrugged. “Yeah. Why?” Then it dawned on him that the names Cesc had given him were ready known associates of Coloccini’s. “Oh.”

“And I’ve got the names from the lads at the club, and those are worth giving a second glance at,” Carra shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Look, we didn’t find what we were looking for in the first place we looked. That don’t mean we throw the clues away now. That just means we’ve got to re-apply them elsewhere.”

Gary sighed. “Don’t think I don't know that. I know how to interpret evidence, Jamie.”

“So let’s go reinterpret what we’ve got.” He kept his face stony, and Gary squirmed a bit. “Come on. We can start again in the morning. Let’s go home.”

“Home?” Gary said, brows raising, seizing the opportunity to feel boastful. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, Jamie…”

“Aw, blow me,” Carra growled, no menace to his voice. 

Gary shook his head, a devilish glint in his eye, relishing the opportunity to remind Carra, “It’s not the weekend, mate.”

“Bullshite,” Carra laughed. “It’s well past five on Thursday. A judge would side with me that we’re only hours from the start of the weekend. I’ve been promised a fuck.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Gary said, putting his hands in his pockets too. “You’d better be prepared to buy me dinner. And I warn you now, I’m not a cheap date.”

“Never would have guessed,” Carra said with a grin, tossing his arm around Gary’s shoulder, slowly letting it slide down his back until his hand came to a rest right on Gary’s hip. He looked to Gary, who gave him a wry look of encouragement.

“Let’s have something delivered,” Gary decided as they strolled back to his car, heads ducked together the whole way.

*

They had dinner and drinks and it all sort of escalated from there. Hands fumbling with clothes, frantic to get undressed without moving away from each other as Gary pinned Carra on the sofa, lips on his neck. They were both grunting a little, gasping, whispering encouragement and endearments to each other, urgent little pleas to keep going, growls of approval, like they were teenagers or something, scared they might get caught snogging on the couch by disapproving parents. It certainly had that feel to it, the way they tried to kiss and bite each other without falling off the sofa or knocking the neglected plates off the coffee table and onto the floor.

Gary’s shirt was unbuttoned, Carra’s pushed up, belt undone, both disheveled when Gary suddenly pulled away from him. Carra made a face, only to grin cheekily when Gary grabbed his hand and pulled him up too, making for the hall and Gary’s bedroom. “Come on. This way.”

He’d never been in Gary’s room before, but he didn’t care to examine it then. He was too busy pulling off his shirt and unfastening his pants the rest of the way to care much about the decor or the lay out. His mind was on one thing only: Gary. He wanted to fuck, oh yes he did, but he’d be willing to forgo that if it meant he could just be in that man’s proximity, hold him, kiss him, smell him. Anything. It didn’t matter. He just longed to be near him.

If Gary caught on to just how lovesick Carra was, he didn’t quite let on. Instead he just smiled, petting Carra’s cheek as he led him to the bed and pushed him back onto it with a gentle shove.

Carra looked up at him, breathing all shallow. “Oh, fuck, Gary.”

Gary grinned, leering at him like Carra was a rat in a trap. He climbed onto the bed, hovering over Carra before leaning down to kiss him. Carra expected something rough, teeth, raw and dominating. But he didn’t get that. What he got was warmth, tenderness, affection. What he got was absent mumbling against his lips as Gary’s hand slipped past the waistband of his underwear, as his fingers curled slowly around his dick.

Carra moaned. Gary tittered, then kissed his jaw, nipping him. “You like that, eh, Jamie?”

“Fuck yes, I do,” Carra said, their eyes meeting. Gary’s expression changed, not to something grave, but to something more serious as he gave Carra’s dick a few experimental strokes. Carra swallowed back a sigh. “Feels good.”

“Good,” Gary whispered, touching him more lightly, loosening his grip. He let go then, shifting himself and rolling Carra along with him, so that they were both lying on their sides face to face, erections brushing together through the thin layers of fabric. Carra was fighting the very real temptation not to lose control and rut against him. “What do you want me to do? Suck you off? Give you a hand job? Or do you want to fu—?”

A shrill sound pierced through the room, the obnoxious electronic sound of a cell phone ringtone blaring from someplace across the floor. They both started, looking to each other first, then to the source of the sound. Carra’s pants.

“It’s me phone,” he said, meeting Gary’s eyes again. “Just ignore it.”

Gary snorted in agreement and they were suddenly kissing again. This time Carra took charge, tired of being patient, tired of waiting all the time. He rolled Gary onto his back and crawled on top of him, grinding against his thigh, relishing in the contented sounds Gary was making. 

“I wanna fuck you,” Carra said, voice a little hoarse. He almost didn’t recognize that he was the one speaking. “Can I fuck you?”

Gary looked up at him with eyes so wide and dark, Carra could almost get lost in them. He nodded lazily. “Yeah.”

Carra thought he might’ve misheard or imagined it and he pulled a face. Surely it wasn’t that easy. After all the teasing and the endless torment, surely Gary wasn’t going to take it up a notch. Not that Carra wasn’t keen to get on with it, but he’d expected to have it drawn out a bit further. He gazed down at Gary, sprawled out beneath him stretched out on his back like a cat, beckoning him closer, luring him in so close, desperate, needy, and it finally occurred to him that Gary maybe had it bad for him. Maybe even worse. Carra let himself soak it all in and smiled. “Yeah? Yeah what?”

Beneath him, Gary shook his head a little, rolling his eyes. He reached up to gently pull on Carra’s hair. “Yeah, I want you to fuck me, you Scouse idiot.”

“You want me to what?” He raised his eyebrows teasingly.

By this point, Gary wasn’t fooling around. He shifted beneath him, looking up at him deviously. Unfortunately, Carra was on to him. “I want you. To fuck me.” 

“S’what I thought you said. No need to beg me for it,” Carra said, grinning, proud. 

“You think I’m gonna beg for it?” Gary protested, mocking incredulity. “You’ve got another thing coming, mate. I ain’t never begged for a fuck in my life.” He smiled then, almost sweetly. “Unlike some other unnamed parties.”

“Oi, you’re a rude one,” Carra growled, biting Gary’s neck just below his ear while the other man laughed, laughter which continued until it faded into pleasant, needy gasping.

“Don’t stop,” Gary implored him. 

“I won’t,” Carra whispered back, pleased with himself. “I’ll leave a mark. That way everyone’ll know what I did to you. They’ll all know that you’re mine.”

“Okay,” Gary said, running his hands down Carra’s back. His nails weren’t long enough to properly scratch him, but he was digging in with sharp fingers, hard enough to leave little spots of color, repaying him for the bite, as it were. 

Carra’s hand was halfway into Gary’s underwear when that hideous synthetic music started blasting again. He jumped slightly at the sound, turning his head sharply to glare at his clothes. “Jesus.”

“Forget it,” Gary said, cupping his chin, commanding his attention. He craned up, planting half a dozen little kisses on Carra’s cheek, leaving a trail of saliva to his lips.

“It might be important,” he mumbled, gradually drawn back in by Gary’s kisses. That man’s lips might be the end of him, he realized. His mouth might be enough to make Carra forget everything, and he decided that he was completely okay with that.

The phone began to ring again though, and this time Carra knew he had to answer it. He got up, leaving Gary pouting and protesting, sitting up on his elbows to scowl at him. “Jamie.”

“Just a second, love. I’ve got to check it.” Gary sighed at him, and Carra didn’t have time to catch what he’d said. “Oh fuck, it’s Pepe.”

“Who’s Pepe?”

“Me partner.”

“Can it wait?” Gary asked him, waggling his foot impatiently.

“He wouldn’t ring me for no reason,” Carra said. “Not at this hour. Just hold on, it’ll only be a minute.”

Gary huffed and flopped onto the bed as Carra futzed with his phone. 

“Hello?” He said, then going silent, scrunching his face in confusion as he realized he hadn’t answered in time. He grumbled under his breath and started pressing buttons, looking back at Gary. “Promise, it won’t be more than a minute.”

Gary cocked an eyebrow, tilting his chin so he could see the clock on the bedside table. “I’ll hold you to that then.”

Carra sat down on the edge of the bed and started talking quickly once Pepe answered. He only only said the same few words again and again. “Uh-huh. Yeah. No. Okay. All right. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I dunno. Shit. Okay. No. I dunno, yesterday? Yeah. Uh-huh.”

As he spoke Gary became restless, sitting up again, staring at Carra’s back for a few moments before sliding up behind him, wrapping his arms around him, pressing his mouth to Carra’s bare skin. He shivered at first, turning his head to glance at Gary, lips twitching into half of a smile. Their eyes met and Gary smiled too, exhaling against Carra’s back. He gave him one last kiss before pressing his cheek to his shoulder, and Carra sighed, relaxing into his arms as he kept on talking.

“All right, yeah. Yeah. Okay. What? No? You’re fucking with me. What? Are you fucking around with me? What? Yeah? All right. Shit. Okay. Okay. Yeah. Yeah. No. I dunno. No. I dunno. Yeah. What? What? Oh. Like, an hour? Yeah. Probably. Okay. All right. Yeah. Okay. Bye. Yeah. Bye.”

He pressed to end the call then, throwing it sharply into the pile of clothes. “Fuck!”

“What’s happened?” Gary asked, running his fingers through Jamie’s hair.

“I have to go.”

Gary stopped suddenly. “What do you mean?”

Carra lifted his jaw to look at him better. “There’s been a body found back home. They’ve called Pepe in to take it, canceled his paternity leave, rushed him in in the middle of the night. And he’s my partner, so…”

“So you have to go,” Gary said, sounding almost emotionless.

“Of course I do, Gary. It’s me job. It’s what I do.”

“Right,” he said, untangling himself. “So you’ll be getting a train then.”

“I suppose I will, yeah. Could use a ride to the station, too. Unless you don’t feel like it.”

“Don’t be daft, mate. ‘Course I’ll take you.” Gary rolled back onto the bed though, yawning. 

Carra looked him over a minute, internally cursing the shit timing and also admiring the display he was going to have to pass on. God, they’d been so close. So close. And now they’d have to wait until who the hell knew when to see each other again. It just wasn’t fair sometimes, but then, neither was life, and he’d known all that going in. He made the choice to take on the life and responsibilities of a detective. He got the satisfaction of knowing he was doing something important, helping right wrongs, performing a sadly needed moral service in an otherwise heartless world. The trade off was he had to give up on selfish things and confront the absolute worst parts of humanity, the vile nature of what man could really be. And that bargain he’d made, to become a cop, the sense of peace that came from making a proper arrest, for seeing justice was served… well, sometimes he wondered if it was worth it. Why should he have to give up on the trivial, happy moments in life just to trod through butchered bodies and broken souls?

Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) it made him really loathe people, made him wonder why anybody bothered to try. Why interact with the planet at all, when spouses were murdering each other, friends attacked other friends, little children got abducted by psychos, and so on. He saw enough blood and suffering and pain to see why somebody might want to just tune out and detach from it all. Of course, he wasn’t like that himself though. The problem was, he cared a bit too much. Not to the point that he let himself actually get hurt, but to the point that he saw the evil men could do and he wanted to stop it. Everyone experienced a moment of doubt. Carra’s moments of doubt came every year or so, when a case was particularly shitty, when the details were especially grim. But then he’d remember that he could do the job and make it right. Most other people couldn’t go into a crime scene, wade through blood and gore and sift through evidence, comfort the survivors, go after the villains, and so on without losing their minds. It was a lot to do, and he could do it, so he had to do it.

It put into perspective the sacrifices he was making. And, sometimes he thought with a laugh, it made the distractions he did allow himself to engage in all the more justified. Just spent 72 hours investigating some grisly murder? Yeah, he deserved to kick back and play some Xbox if he wanted to. Or drive out to Manchester and fool around with that wicked Manc bastard, sprawled out on his bed, tempting him to dally awhile.

God, but why couldn’t he stay? Maybe another hour… He looked at Gary and their eyes met, both longing, neither speaking. An hour. Then he would board that train and— 

No. 

Carra stood up and reached for his clothes. “Come on, mate. I’ve got to go.”

*

They sat in Gary’s car for a few minutes, parked near the station. It wasn't an awkward tension that hung between them, it was more regretful than that, like they were both a little scared maybe, fearful of what might happen next, like the spell would be broken when Carra opened the door and got out of the car, like everything that had gone on between them would suddenly dissipate and they’d be left empty, hollow, unwanted. Carra sat with his bag in his lap, adjusting the straps on it like it was a matter of life or death. Gary sat beside him, pointedly not looking his way. Between them, the defroster roared, a mechanical whirring sound that provided an appropriate distraction for everything else.

“That thing’s broken,” Carra said, gesturing to the overworked fan.

“Yeah, I need to get that fixed.”

“I can look at it if you like.”

Gary almost laughed, managing only half a smile. “What, you’re a mechanic now too?”

“I know a thing or two. Next time I’m here, I’ll fix it for you.”

“Liar, Jamie. Trying to impress me.”

“I’m not lying,” he said, testing the zipper on his bag, staring right at Gary.. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“All right. When do you think I can see you again?” Gary asked, hands on the wheel still, eyes fixed ahead.

“I dunno. It depends on…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll ring you when I can,” Carra said, like it might make up for it. Truth was, he didn’t know what might happen or how long it might take. The sooner he got working, the sooner he could do his job. If he caught a break, if things went his way, he could be done in a day or two, but… he never bet money on anything so unpredictable as murder.

“All right,” Gary said.

“If you don’t hear from me for a few days, don’t think it’s because I’m avoiding you.” Carra turned to look at Gary then. “‘Cause I’m not and I won’t be. It’s just—”

“I know how it is,” Gary said, watching him from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be here. You’ve got my number.”

“Yeah.” Carra frowned. “Hey. Keep working that Coloccini case, yeah? See if you can’t find something in those names and I’ll talk you through it when I can.”

He nodded, turning to look at Carra. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Carra said as he opened the door. He was midway out when he thought better of it and crawled back into the car, stretching across the seat to quickly kiss Gary on the mouth before sprinting out again and down the sidewalk to the station.

*

Carra still had his bag with him when he arrived at the station. Pepe met him in the hall and handed him a cup of coffee and they walked together to Daniel Agger’s office.

“That was more than an hour,” Pepe said, pressing the elevator call button.

“Yeah, well, this all went down at an inconvenient time,” Carra grumbled.

“What were you doing in Manchester anyway?” He asked, lips curving in a way that told Carra he knew exactly what the answer was already.

Carra rolled his eyes. “Can’t a fella have any privacy these days?”

“No. How was it?” The lift chimed and the doors slid open.

“I dunno,” Carra said, stepping aside to let the people out of the elevator first. 

“You don’t know?” Pepe raised an eyebrow, following him in.

“It might’ve been amazing, but you rang me before I could find out.”

Pepe’s laugh echoed against the chrome walls of the lift as the doors closed behind him. “That’s just perfect. Excellent timing.”

“Sod off.”

“Ha!”

“You’re in too good a mood for this,” Carra sighed, slumping against the wall. “Aren’t you pissed your paternity leave has been cancelled?”

“Not really,” Pepe smiled. “I was just getting in the way. Yolanda has it all under control.”

“I hope for your sake that’s true.”

“Yeah, so do I.”

The door opened then and the walked the rest of the way to Agger’s door, pausing outside a moment. Pepe handed Carra a file, opened with crime scene photos.

“A motorist rang it in at about eleven, found her just off the shoulder. Looks like a dump job to me.”

Carra studied the photos one by one. “You took these?”

Pepe nodded. “I just got back from the scene. Uniforms are still there, doing collection. I’ll head back after sunrise, see if there’s anything more to be found, but I’m not holding my breath. There’s too much traffic in the area. Anything left by the killer’d be long gone by now.”

He flipped through the photos again, taking in the gruesome scene. The victim appeared to be a young woman, hands and feet bound with plastic restraints, a rag stuffed into her mouth, long red hair with leafs and twigs tangled in it, face up on the dirt by the side of the road. Her eyes were closed, she was completely dressed. If not for the discoloration of her skin, she might look like she was sleeping.

“Cause of death?” Carra asked, looking up at his partner.

“A single bullet to the back of the head.”

“An execution.”

“That’s what it looks like. I’m sure Dagger will have something to say.” Pepe knocked on the door then and they waited until they heard a muffled acknowledgement before they went inside.

“What have you got for us?” Pepe asked. He and Carra joined Agger at his desk, where new photographic evidence from his preliminary examination was laid out. There were more photos of the woman, close up images of her clothing.

“Not much to add so far, not more than what you’ve already got. A single gunshot wound to the back of the head, no other signs of injury. Of course, there could be more, once I get her open. I’ll run toxicology reports, but I thought you might want to see this first.” Agger picked up a small plastic card, tucked neatly into a little baggie, “Found this in her back pocket. Take a look.”

Inside the little plastic bag was an ID card with the her picture, name, and a local address. Carra held it up, squinting a little. He could have sworn he’d seen her face someplace before, or maybe someone who looked sort of like her.

“What’s wrong, Carra?” Pepe asked, peering over his shoulder. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Just she looks familiar. Can’t place it though.”

“I’ve run her prints for you already,” Agger said. “Confirms the ID. She had a record, got popped for burglary a year ago but was able to plead it down.”

Pepe frowned, then got his mobile from his pocket. “Her place is nearby. I’ll call in, we’ll get a search warrant and check the place out. That very well could be our murder scene.”

Carra nodded. “Be quick about it, we’ve no time to waste.” He looked to Daniel then, “We won’t keep you, Dan. Ring us as soon as you have something more.”

Dan grinned, standing up from his desk, ready to head back into the morgue. “I always do.”

*

Gary took a cold shower as soon as he got home and he tried his very best to put Jamie Carragher out of his mind. It was a difficult task, nearly insurmountable, really, but he had to get his head on straight. They shouldn’t have fooled around. He shouldn't have let things so out of control. He’d wanted to, damn had he wanted to, but there was so much work to do. 

He noticed the purple mark on his neck as he brushed his teeth and he couldn’t help but wince. So much for taking things slow and acting like a fucking professional. Where had his self-control gone? What had become of his pride, his determination to do his job before trying to bed the detective? He sighed, touching the bruise hesitantly. “Dammit, Jamie.”

He half considered trying to hide it with a bandaid or something before deciding he was probably making it even more obvious and giving up. He’d just have to wear a scarf or something when he went out the next day.

He woke Friday morning around ten, after a morning of restless, terrible sleep and he set about cleaning up the remnants of their forgotten dinner from the living room before settling in the kitchen with some tea and the list of names provided by Cesc Fàbregas. All were said to be known associates of Fabricio Coloccini’s, and as it turned out, they were all based out of London. Gary sat at his kitchen table and scoured over the names.

After calling in a few favors to the local police station and having background checks run on each of the lads, just in case, Gary was left with just as many loose ends as he had answers. Some of them were just kids, punks from London, ones who might get into a scuffle but were otherwise harmless. One of them had a record for parking violations, another a citation of loitering. It was trivial, petty things that meant nothing. Not one of them had anything on record that might indicate that they had anything to do with Coloccini besides having shared a pint with him in the past. All save for one…

One fellow, arrested several times for assault, making threats in public, and hooliganism. Out of the half dozen names Cesc had given, this man stood alone as the only true bad apple spoiling the bunch. Gary stared at the photo his contact at the station had sent over, scowling and bitter, with contemptuous, and somehow familiar black eyes. 

Could this lad be the link? Maybe, but it didn’t hardly make any sense. Here he was, operating under the assumption that Coloccini must have had an accomplice because of the woman who’d brought in the stolen items to the pawn shop, but what proof did he have besides that? He and Jamie had gone down a massive rabbit hole, chasing after Cesc and Kun, wasting an entire day, and for what? They’d come no closer to solving anything, and in the meantime the clock was ticking for his office. If he didn’t come up with something to put Coloccini away for good, there’d be hell to pay and he might not be working with the prosecutor’s office much longer. The idea made him feel slightly nauseous.

His phone rang then and he was snapped out of his thoughts. It was his boss calling. A sense of dread overcame him as he answered.

*

It took four excruciating hours to get the warrant cleared. Four hours. Jamie was liable to punch something, he was so livid. Didn’t judges understand how vital it was to solving the crime that they investigate the victim’s address in a timely manner.

“Easy, Carra,” Pepe said as they drove to her address. “We’ve got it now. T’s crossed, I’s dotted.”

Carra just sighed, sitting back in the passenger seat, closing his eyes. He was jolted awake moments later when his phone went off in his pocket. 

“God, that’s an annoying ringtone,” Pepe snorted.

“I know,” he said, looking at the device. “Shit. It’s Gary.”

“Who’s Gary?”

“The barrister.”

Pepe’s face lit up, “The Manc you were in bed with last night! Haha! Go on, answer the phone, lover boy!”

Carra flushed. “No.”

“Aw, come on, Carra. Ignore me. Pretend I’m not here.”

He grumbled momentarily before deciding, you know what, screw Pepe. He was going to answer. And so he did, “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Yeah. I can’t really—”

“I know. Listen, Jamie, I know you’re busy, but something’s come up.”

He furrowed his brows, then gave Pepe a dirty look once he noticed his partner sending him devious glances. “What’s it?”

“It’s the judge, in the Coloccini affair. We’ve got a firm deadline now. Monday night. If we can’t file new charges by then, he’ll dismiss the entire case.” Gary sounded panicked, just as frazzled as he had that day in the courthouse two weeks ago. 

Carra’s heart sank. What was he supposed to do? Scoot back to Manchester and save the day? Forget all about the poor dead girl on Agger’s table so he could go back to Manchester and play house and detective with Gary? Some part of him might have wanted to do that, maybe, but he was better than that. He had a sworn duty to uphold and he wasn’t about to betray his badge. He wouldn’t do that for anyone, not even Gary Neville.

“I can’t help you right now,” he said, speaking quietly, hoping Pepe wasn’t hanging on his words. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, but—”

“No, you’re not listening. There’s no but’s about it, Gary. There’s been a homicide. Solving homicides is what I do. I’ve got to protect me city, I’ve got to do me job. I can’t help you with this burglary anymore. You’ve got to do it yourself or let one of your Manc boys help you with it.” Gary tried to say something then, but Carra cut him off again. “Gary. I don’t give two shits about the Coloccini case. Don’t you get that? There’s more important things in this world than some stupid burglar and his stupid fucking friends. Now I’m not gonna waste me time on that when there’s a murderer on the loose in Liverpool!”

“Yes, but—”

“No! Enough! Do it yourself. Now I’ve got to go.” Carra growled. A second later he paused and quickly added, “I’ll call you later.”

And with that, he hung up and turned to look at Pepe, who was gaping at him. “No wonder you’ve been single all these years. You’re an asshole.”

Carra scoffed, actually offended. “No I’m not. He’s just—”

“You chewed him out. You realize that, right? And for what? For wanting you to help him?” Pepe shook his head. “I love you, man, but you’re a real piece of work.” Carra didn’t say anything, so Pepe took that as his signal to continue. “I thought you liked this one.”

“I do like him.”

“So cut him some slack.” Pepe sighed as they pulled up to the curb near the victim’s apartment. “He needed help and you were the one he called. Why the hell would you yell at him for that? Take it as a compliment, you dumb bastard”

“Are you done with the lecture, Professor Reina?”

“Probably not, but I’ll continue it when we’re done inside. I swear to you, Jamie, you have so much to learn about love, it’s practically a joke.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Carra said, glaring daggers.

Pepe looked at him, completely deadpan. “Am I laughing?”

Carra blinked. “No.”

“That’s because it’s not funny.” Pepe turned off the car and stepped outside, slamming the door shut, leaving him in a sad, quiet fog.

*

Upon first glance, the apartment was small and orderly, a two bedroom unit with a cozy kitchenette and older, faded carpeting. Carra noted the faint smell of tobacco in the room, though there was no sign of any ashtrays or coke cans with butts in them. He wasn't sure what he’d been expecting, maybe for the place to be ransacked or otherwise vandalized, but it was eerily calm, alarmingly normal.

Or it was, until they got to the bathroom. He poked his head inside, hissing sharply. Blood splattered on the tile walls and blood soaked paper towels discarded in the bathtub. Signs of a hasty clean up. Signs of a struggle. “Pepe, in here. We’ll need the forensics kids in here, right now.”

Pepe popped up behind him, grunting in disapproval. “Looks like we’ve found the murder scene. I’ll call them, make sure they’re en route.”

Carra nodded and shut the door, heading back to check the second bedroom. The door was propped shut, difficult to push open, as something large was blocking the door. Frowning, he gave it a rough shove until the door gave way, the items in the way cascading to the floor in a pile. “The hell…?”

Back in the living room, Pepe was on his mobile. Carra spared him a quick glance before pushing the door open further and going inside. The late-morning light was streaming in through the horizontal window blinds, making odd shadows over the room, the strange accumulation of objects looking even more out of place then. He reached of the light switch, squinting as he tried to put together what the fuck he was looking at.

Televisions, more than a dozen of them, high end and stacked haphazardly in the corner. Gaming consoles, maybe twenty of them, dropped carelessly into a pile. There were multiple stereo systems, close to thirty desktop computers, and even more laptop computers. 

Carra couldn’t believe what he was looking at, but the icing on the cake was the object that had been blocking his initial entry. Right behind the door, in all of it’s high-tech glory sat a large, silvery, shining barbecue grill. 

Then it hit him. He knew why the victim looked familiar. Save for the wrinkles, she was a younger version of the pawnbroker, a spitting fucking image. 

“She’s the redhead,” he choked, staggering backwards out of the room. “It’s her!”

“What’s that?” Pepe asked, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “What’s wrong, Carra? Don’t tell me you found something worse than that bathroom.”

He shook his head, grabbing fast to Pepe’s shoulder. “I’ve found her.”

Pepe’s face went pale. “Another body? Aw, shit—”

“No, no. She’s Coloccini’s accomplice. This is where they’ve been keeping the goods.”

“Wait, you mean from that case you and your old man have been working? The Manchester burglaries?”

He nodded. “Our victim is part of that ring. I knew she looked familiar, Pepe. I knew it. And that room back there’s got all the stolen items. Just look at it. It’s got the fucking barbecue grill in there. They were bringing the stuff here, storing it, then pawning it.”

Pepe, for his part, seemed unconvinced. “That’s a leap, you know. How do you know they’re stolen items, Carra? How do you know she isn’t just—”

“Give me one logical reason a lady keeps a barbecue grill inside of her apartment? And if you say it’s because of the shite weather around here, explain to me then why she’d have thirty fucking computers in the same room. And fifteen televisions. And twelve Xboxes. Pepe, please. No one has need for twelve Xboxes, nobody.”

“Point taken,” Pepe said. “So you really think this is connected to that burglary?”

Carra bit his lip and nodded again. “Yeah. I really do.”

Pepe looked past him to the door, left ajar. “Oi, this just got a lot more complicated, didn’t it.”

He sighed, reaching into his coat pocket for his phone. Yeah, it really did.

*

Gary wasn’t sure if he was more angry or insulted. Or maybe he was just generally miffed at the whole thing. He hadn't expected that Jamie would come running back to him or something, he wasn’t stupid. He just wanted a little guidance, maybe a word of encouragement. And all he got was a tongue-lashing for his efforts. That and the bruise on his neck, which seemed to be absolutely throbbing. Bastard.

But it was fine. Who needed Jamie Carragher anyway? Certainly not him. He might not be a detective by trade, but he wasn’t stupid. He could piece together the case by himself. It’s what he would’ve done without Jamie’s interference anyways. He wasn’t a fool. He could do it all himself. And to prove it, he turned his phone on silent and tossed it across the living room, smiling at the satisfying thud it made as it bounced off the sofa and onto the floor.

Right, so, where was he? He’d just made his way back to the kitchen, back to the list of names when there came a knock at his front door. Not expecting anybody, he took his time heading back to the door, pausing as the knocking came again.

“Is anyone home?” A voice came, muffled. “Mister Neville? Hello? Are you at home?”

Gary frowned, recognizing it straight away. He put his hand to the doorknob, opening the door slowly, saying nothing as he came face to face with Kun.

Or rather, face to sunglasses with Kun. The Argentine’s face was obscured by the oversized dark glasses, hidden further by the silver zebra-print scarf wrapped tidily around his head. The shoulders of his peacoat were dripping, Manchester’s November drizzle doing it’s best to dampen even the sunniest of spirits. Kun smiled at him, one of those simpering little smiles that usually drove Gary quite mad, false and just oozing with mock affection. Still, he found he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Oh thank goodness you are home, Mister Neville,” Kun said, clasping his hands together. “I need to speak with you quite urgently.”

Gary balked, “Are you quite sure this can’t wait?”

Kun shook his head, “It’s very important. Can’t I please come inside?”

On the off chance it was important, Gary figured he’d better let the man in. And that was how Kun Agüero came to be in his living room, sipping tea with him, recounting a most perplexing and unusual tale as Gary scribbled down the details on his legal pad.

“And as I was leaving my building, I was accosted!” Kun sat slumped on the sofa, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, making no effort to remove his sunglasses. “A man grabbed me. He pulled me into his car and he said he was going to make it so no one would ever see my show again.”

“Have you gone to the police?” Gary asked, truly baffled. Why would anyone attack Kun of all people? Kun was harmless. A little flighty, sure, and totally one who craved the spotlight, but he was so completely useless. What good could come from trifling with him?

Kun shook his head, “Oh no, I can’t do that. I can’t go to the police.”

“Why not?” 

“Because that’s the whole reason they came after me. Because I talked to Detective Carragher about Coloccini.” Kun looked so deflated, so sad, he actually managed to tug on Gary’s heartstrings a little. “I couldn’t go to the police, so I came here instead.”

He didn’t want to end it there, but that brought up a whole other line of questioning. “Which reminds me, Kun. How did you find my apartment to begin with? It’s not listed on my card…”

Kun turned his head up, smiling coyly. “I googled you. Twice, actually.”

“Right.”

“I thought I would be safe here.”

“You are, but you’ll pardon me for wondering how talking to the prosecutor is any better than talking to the police.”

“He specifically said the police.” He sat up straight, defiant. “You don’t believe me, do you. I promise, I’m not lying to you.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were, Kun.” Gary said, fiddling with his pen. “But you can imagine how this is all quite unorthodox. For starters, how do you know this was about Coloccini?”

“The man said so. He said he knew I’d talked to the cops about Coloccini, and that it had better be the last time I talked to the cops, or else. And then…” Kun inhaled, breath jagged. “And then he hit me.”

“He hit you?” Gary asked, uncertain. “Whereabouts did he hit you?”

“He hit my face.” Kun said, voice hushed, then purposefully removed his sunglasses.

“Where?” Gary narrowed his eyes, trying to see if anything seemed amiss. He didn’t notice much of anything, to be honest, and it was until Kun let out an impatient sigh and began to scrub at his eye with his handkerchief that the loads of foundation he’d used to cover it up came off, revealing a lovely purple shiner. 

“There,” Kun said, blinking back tears again. “You see? You can see what he did to me? I was so ashamed, I had to cover it up, you see. If one of my fans saw me like this, I don’t know what I’d do. You can see why I am so afraid?”

“Yes, Kun,” Gary said softly. “I see what he did.”

“I’m too scared to go anywhere. I’m too scared to do anything.” Kun looked down at his lap, shaking his head. “What if that man is waiting for me at my house. Or at the club? Oh, Mister Neville, I’m too frightened to do anything at all!”

“Well, did you get a good look at him? Could you make out his face?”

Kun shook his head. “No, no. I only got a glimpse of him before he covered my face, held something over my eyes. I only know that he was a man. And he spoke Spanish to me.”

“Spanish…” That was an interesting clue. “We should really phone the police. They can post a detail, keep an eye out for that fella…”

“No!” Kun cried. “No police! This whole mess is because the stupid police can’t be tasked with doing anything properly! No, I’m done with the police. All I ask is that…” He trailed off, looking up at Gary with large, doe eyes. “All I ask is that you let me stay until it’s time to go to the club. Please, Mister Neville. I’m begging you. Please don’t turn me out.”

When he put it like that, Gary felt he had very little choice. So instead, he fixed Kun a sandwich and set him up with the television in the living room while he went over his statement again and tried to figure out how this mystery assailant fit into the story.

*

“He’s not answering,” Carra said, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the victim’s flat, Pepe watching as the forensics team went in to investigate the crime scene. “I’ve tried him three times now and he hasn’t picked up.”

“Did you try his office?”

“Yes, and they said he’s not in.”

“Ah. Did you leave a voice message?” 

“Of course I’ve left him a message. I just…”

“Then he must be busy.”

“Yeah, well, I just need to talk to him.”

“Or he is screening his calls because you yelled at him like a petulant child.”

“I’m being serious right now.”

“Me too. How strange.”

“Pepe.” Carra was in no mood for another lecture, especially not from Pepe and especially not now. He had something that might blow everything wide open. He just needed to talk to Gary so they could figure it all out. Together. 

He tugged on Pepe’s sleeve, commanding his attention. “Pepe, listen. I need a favor, mate.”

Pepe raised his eyebrows. “This should be good. All right, Carra. Hit me.”

“I need to borrow your car.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I need to go to Manchester. I need to speak to Gary.”

“No. You need to get your head out of your ass and focus on your job.” Pepe was firm with him, always had been, but there was something almost alarming in the serious tone he’d taken on. Carra didn’t like it when the tables turned on him and his partner shifted from good-natured mockery to being so severe with him. “Maybe there’s a connection to that burglary, but that can’t be our priority. We’ve got a dead girl in Agger’s morgue and a responsibility to find her killer.”

“Don’t lecture me on what my responsibilities are,” Carra said, raising his voice. “I know exactly what my responsibilities are. I’ve got to find that woman’s killer, meanwhile I’m holding a valuable piece to Gary’s case and he may well have a piece to ours.”

Pepe flinched. “What do you—”

“He’s got a list of names, Pepe. Friends of Coloccini’s, friends of the bloke our victim was working that theft ring with.” Carra settled down a little, glaring at the uniformed officers who stopped to gawk at his outburst. “Listen, I told Gary to follow up on those names, and if he has half a brain, which I know he does, he’s got more than half and he’s way smarter than me, he’s liable to have put together exactly which of Coloccini’s mates are involved in the whole mess. Bottom line is, he’s got those names, and we need those names, Pepe. Now give me your keys. I’ll fill it up on me way back.”

He held his hand out expectantly. Pepe met his eyes, a look of concern still present. “Carra, if you—”

“I won’t wreck your car, for crying out loud.”

“I was going to say, if you waste the entire day chasing after that Manc of yours—”

“I won’t. I’m heading out strictly on business. There and back. It’ll only take a couple of hours. Trust me, Pepe.”

“That’s not even factoring in the Friday traffic,” Pepe sighed, dragging his hands over his head, wishing for hair that he could pull out. “You know what, fine. You go get those damned names. I’ll handle it here.”

“You’re an angel,” Carra said, waggling his fingers until Pepe dropped the keys in his palm.

“I’m trusting your gut on this, Jamie. Don’t screw us over.”

*

Gary hadn’t managed to get much more work accomplished, thanks to the distractions Kun was happily providing in the living room. The Argentine had made himself right at home, buzzing around Gary’s flat like he own the place, helping himself to a bottle of wine from the kitchen before digging out his Xbox, which he'd neatly tucked away for the duration of Jamie’s visit.

“What games do you have?” Kun asked, scrolling through the menu, looking up at Gary with a shy half a smile. “Ooh! You have FIFA! I want to play!”

Gary sighed and waved a dismissive hand before heading back to the kitchen to look over his case again and try and get back into a decent headspace. 

*

Carra was halfway to Manchester, delayed to a near crawl by the late afternoon traffic when the hideous and familiar ringtone started in his pocket. He pulled out his phone, glancing at the unknown number before answering.

“Carragher speaking.”

“This is Detective Jamie Carragher, yes?” The voice on the other end sounded hesitant, foreign. “The one who was at the Casa Azul yesterday.”

“Yes?” Carra said, putting the phone on speaker mode. “Who’s this?”

“Pablo Zabaleta. Zaba. From the club. You do remember me, yes?”

Internally, he rolled his eyes. How could anyone forget that walking caricature of a human being. “Yep, I remember you, mate. What can I do for you?”

Zaba exhaled heavily, like whatever he’d called about was weighing on his shoulders. “You said to call if I had any information about Fabricio and his friends. And I do, so…”

That perked Carra right up. “Yeah, I did. Go on. What’s on your mind?”

“I must preface this. We’re not very close, Fabricio and I, but I know some people who know some people. A friend of an ex, you understand. And it’s probably nothing, but…”

“You must’ve thought it was important if you made this call,” Carra pointed out.

“Yes, well. It is sort of important, I think.” Zaba took another deep breath. “I saw one of Fabricio’s friends near the club this afternoon.”

Carra would’ve slowed down the car, if he’d actually been moving. “One of his friends? You’re sure of it?”

“Yes. I’d recognize his ugly mug anywhere.”

“Fair enough. Which one? What’s the fella’s name?”

“His name is Diego. Diego Costa.”

 

*

Carra knocked again, louder this time, sure that Gary was home, since his car was out front. Could it be that Gary was avoiding him completely? He got out his phone again, ready to ring him up, refusing to budge until he came to the door. Still, there was no answer from either, so he started to holler along with his banging. “Gary! Open up! It’s Jamie! I can see your car out front! Gary!”

He jiggled the handle, groaning in frustration over the locked door. “Gary. Come on, mate. It’s important.”

He heard a commotion then, someone at the door and he stood at attention, relieved and excited to see Gary at last. But his heart sank, positively plummeted when he was instead greeted by one pouty-lipped Argentine, gazing up at him with eyes that would put Bambi to shame.

“Oh! It’s Detective Carragher!” Kun cooed, putting both hands on his cheeks. He leaned against the doorframe like he owned the damn place, giving Carra the sweetest of smiles. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Detective.”

“Kun? What the fuck are you doing here?” Carra stammered, mind temporarily gone blank from shock. 

“I was just visiting. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Neville,” Carra said, pushing past Kun and into the flat. He didn’t bother taking off his coat or shoes, bursting through past the living room and into the kitchen where Gary sat with his paperwork and a glass of red wine. Carra stood in the doorway, arms crossed, waiting for Gary to at least fucking acknowledge him.

“Jamie,” he said at last, looking up from his notes, totally beleaguered. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been calling you all afternoon.”

“I put my phone on silent.”

“Yeah, well, that’s bloody nice for you.” 

Their eyes met then, and Carra could’ve sworn he’d been zapped by some electricity. He was stunned, held captive, and at once completely at Gary’s mercy, watching helplessly as the other man stood up and crossed the room toward him.

“You said to leave you alone so you could work. Don’t tell me you’ve solved that murder in a morning.”

“I haven’t, I—”

“Then what’re you doing here? You can’t get livid with me for interrupting your job when you decide to cut out and show up at my place all the time. That’s irresponsible, Jamie, and you can’t blame it on me.” 

Gary stood only a few paces from him now, close enough that Carra could have his arms around him in a second, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. Well, he did, but he was cross, and he didn’t want to admit anything. And besides, he had work to do, and—

“What’s he doing here?” Shit. Spoke before he could think. He could kick himself, he really could.

“What?”

“That tart out there in your living room. What’s he doing here?”

Gary had the audacity to look offended, a look with morphed magnificently into an outright laugh. “Oh my god, you’ve got some nerve.”

“I’ve got some nerve? Really?” He couldn’t help himself, he was hurt and confused and, if he were being honest with himself, kind of a lot a bit jealous. “I’m gone twelve hours and already you’ve got someone else ‘round? Really?”

“You can’t possibly…” Gary practically choked, he was so put off. He stared at Carra as if he’d grown a second head, a bewildered, scornful, wounded look in his eyes. “My lord, you’re serious. You’re actually bloody serious. Right then. Let me put this plainly. First of all, I’m not fucking around with Kun Agüero. And second of all, even if I were, it’s none of your business. I can have whoever the hell I want in my flat, and I don’t have to check in with you first, because guess what, Jamie. You’re not my boyfriend.”

And there it was, out in the open and hanging there between them, heavy and awful and oh so true. Carra felt immediate regret, immediate anguish, and he immediately wanted to storm out. Instead, he stood there like an idiot, cheeks burning, practically pleading with his eyes for Gary to say something else, anything else. But Gary just turned away, went back to the table and sank into a chair, glancing back to give Carra a pained look of his own.

Kun chose that moment to peek in behind Carra. “Are you two done in here? I’ll have to leave for the club soon.”

“The club?” Carra asked, looking at Kun, then back to Gary.

“He got attacked outside his apartment this morning,” Gary said. “He’s too scared to go to the police. That’s why he’s here. I told him I’d go with him to the club tonight, make sure there’s no trouble.”

Carra’s heart was pounding. He looked to Kun, only then noticing the discoloration around his eye. “Ah, so you have.” He turned back to Gary, taking a few tentative steps toward the table. “Listen, Gary, I…”

“Why are you here, Jamie? Honestly.” Gary looked so exhausted. Carra suddenly felt exhausted too.

“Our cases are connected. My victim is the redhead. Coloccini’s accomplice.”

“Wha…” 

“We found the stolen goods in her apartment. The televisions, the computers. The fucking barbecue grill. It’s all there, stashed away.”

Gary scratched his head, trying to make sense of it all. “But… why? That doesn’t—”

“I can’t explain that part yet,” Carra said, dropping to the chair next to Gary’s, Kun joining them too. “But I’ve got something else. I got a phone call from Zaba.”

Kun gasped, “Zaba? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Carra said, waving a hand. “But he’s spotted one of Coloccini’s mates hanging around the Casa Azul this afternoon. A fella called Diego Costa.”

This time, the one to gasp was Gary. “Are you… rightly sure that’s his name?”

Carra nodded, “Yeah. Why?”

Gary flipped through his documents, pulling out the list of names Cesc had given him. “Look here.”

From behind the paper, the photograph shook free, the one Gary’s police contact had sent over of the dark-eyed hooligan. Carra studied it closely, almost sure he’d seen that face someplace before. Then it dawned on him. “We’ve seen him before, Gary.”

“We have?”

“Yeah. He’s one of Cesc’s housemates.”

From his spot at the table, Kun craned to see the photo, and when he did he almost went ghostly pale. “It’s him!”

They both looked to him, watching as he practically crumbled to pieces. Gary reached over, grabbing hold of Kun’s arm to steady him. “You know him, Kun?”

He inhaled, biting his lip as he nodded. “That’s the guy who grabbed me this morning. That’s him, I’m sure of it.”

Carra looked back to Gary, whispering to him, “Zaba says he’s been lurking around the club all day.”

“Oh god!” Kun cried.

“There’s a chance he’s still there now,” Gary said, patting Kun’s arm. 

“We’ve got to get there then,” Carra said as he stood up. 

“No,” Kun whimpered, shaking his head. “That terrible man might be there, and if he sees me with you two…” 

Gary put his other hand on Kun’s shoulder, looking him square in the eyes. “Nothing bad’s going to happen to you, Kun. I promise you, you’ll be all right.”

“But he’s a police officer,” Kun said, pointing to Carra.

“Yeah, but I’m from Liverpool. According to Zabaleta, I’m outside my jurisdiction.” Carra snorted, trying his best to look sure, for Kun’s sake. 

“Right,” Gary agreed, sharing a brief glance with Carra. “Besides, if he had any sense, Diego Costa would be more concerned with what I can do to him.” He had an almost sinister look about him, which Carra decided suited him quite nicely. “Come on, Kun. Go get your coat. It’s almost show time.”

*

They took Pepe’s car, Kun riding shotgun with Gary in the back as they sped toward the east side of the city. It probably wasn't the best plan to have Carra at the wheel, however.

“You missed the turn,” Kun sighed impatiently.

“We’ll loop back ‘round again,” Carra said under his breath, changing lanes.

“No, no, take the next right, there’s a shortcut,” Gary said from the back.

“At this time of day?” Kun scoffed. “We’ll get stuck at the—”

“Not if we make the turn before the—”

“You’re not accounting for rush hour! Believe me, it’s going to be jam-packed if we don’t take—”

“Listen, mate I grew up in this town. Don’t you think I know how to get there? Jamie, take the next right.” 

“We’re going to get stuck!” Kun whined. “And I am going to be late! And that horrible man is going to—”

“You two are the reason nobody actually likes this shithole. Yapping that, like a pair of dogs in heat. Giving me a headache. Christ.” Carra shook his head, catching Gary’s stony glare in the rear view mirror. 

“Take the next right, Jamie.”

Carra glanced back at him again, offered up a quick quirk of his brow, and did as he was told.

Unfortunately though, it seemed that Kun was on the money about the traffic. Funny, it was late enough in the evening that one might’ve thought the traffic may have disbursed a bit, but then again, it was a Friday in Manchester. People were bound to be out and about. Compounding that was a match at the Etihad and an inordinate influx of both car and foot traffic, prancing around in their City colors.

They were about a mile away still when both Gary and Kun began to loudly insist that Carra find a parking spot already.

“You can’t get any closer than this,” Kun warned. 

Gary agreed, “It’s not even worth it to bother. We’re better off just walking from here.”

And thus they began their trek toward the Casa Azul, keeping off the main drag, just in case Costa was lurking around the front. They walked in silence, with Carra and Gary leading the way and Kun just a half a step behind. The rain that had been on and off all day had stopped. Instead of the typical grey, the sky seemed to look almost silvery, with the hint in the air that it might snow overnight. That or the fog might just be frozen. Whatever it was, the weather would be horrid.

They were no more than three blocks away from the back entrance when they turned a corner and spotted a figure lying face down on the sidewalk. Bundled up in an overly large jacket, the man was trying to stand upright, stumbling to regain his footing.

Carra and Gary looked to each other before rushing ahead to aid the man, and both gasped when he turned around to face them.

“Cesc?!” Carra sputtered. It was like deja vu, like the first time he’d met him. Bloodied up, nose punched in, an absolute wreck. He reached for Cesc, holding him steady as the young man blinked at him, dazed.

“Detective?” He seemed small, stunned, bewildered, rolling his neck a little to look at Gary. “And you. The barrister. Oh god.”

Kun trotted up behind them, offering up his handkerchief. Carra took it and began to wipe the blood from Cesc’s nose. 

“Is he all right?” Kun asked, fully concerned.

“He’ll be fine. What happened to you, Cesc? What’s gone on?” Carra asked as Cesc hissed in pain. “Come on, mate. Talk to me. Who’s done this to you?”

Cesc sniffled, then started to cough, spitting some blood onto the pavement at their feet. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

Gary cleared his throat, “Nothing didn’t beat the hell out of you, Cesc. Now come on and be a good lad and tell us what’s happened.”

Again, as usual, the Catalan looked to Carra, for confirmation that it was safe. He took a deep breath, voice trembling a little. “He said he didn’t like me talking to the police.”

“Who did?” Carra asked.

“He said I’d caused them enough trouble as it was. If I… if I weren’t so useless, Fabricio wouldn’t have been popped.”

“Cesc,” Carra said firmly, both hands on the kid’s shoulders now. “Who did this to you?”

“It was Diego,” he said at last, blinking back tears in some vain attempt to seem manly. “My flatmate, from back home. In London, I mean.”

“Diego Costa,” Gary said, shaking his head.

“Yes, the very same.” Cesc sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, blood smearing all over his coat. “He showed up here the other day, before you came to the door. He… I was trying to get out of it all, Carra. You have to believe me!”

“Help me to understand this,” Gary said, intentionally guiding them to the side of the walk, so as not to drawn so much attention. “You said you left London because of some trouble. Was he the trouble, Cesc? Was Diego the one you were trying to get away from?”

Cesc nodded, face crumbling as he began to cry. “It’s him and Coloccini and some other guys. They’ve been doing this for years. Fabricio does the burglaries, Diego sells the goods, out of town. They used to do it up in Newcastle, then they switched here, when Señora Coloccini decided to move.”

“And how do you fit in?” Carra asked, trying to keep calm. Internally, he wanted to throttle the kid for being such a useless, insufferable idiot. 

“Diego and I had a flat, in London. I didn’t know what he was doing at first, I swear it! But he asked me to do him a favor. He said he had a friend in Liverpool that was supposed to give him something, and…” Cesc took a deep breath, lower lip trembling. “They wanted me to help fence for them. Fabricio’d broken up with his girl, and she’d been doing it for them for years and she wanted out, and… Diego thought I’d be good at it. That was the plan.”

Carra couldn't believe what he was hearing. After months of thinking he’d had the story, that little shit had been lying through his teeth the whole time, in cahoots with the burglars, working for Coloccini. He was so angry, he wanted to punch Cesc himself. But then Cesc looked to him and all he saw was a scared, if completely stupid kid. 

“I tried to back out. I told him no, I didn’t want to do it. That’s why he got mad at me, when you found us in the car,” Cesc said, practically clinging to Carra. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I just wanted to move on. So I moved to Manchester, with Gerard. He said I could stay with him, so I did and then Diego showed up and said Fabricio was gonna walk and it was time to get back to business and…”

“And then we showed up at your door,” Gary said.

Cesc nodded weakly. “And I couldn’t not talk to you. I… didn’t know what to do. I wanted it all to go away. But he was gone when I got back to my place and I thought it would all be okay. But—”

“He was at my flat this morning,” Kun interjected, grabbing onto Gary’s sleeve. “Somehow he knew that I had been talking to you as well.”

“That’s probably my fault too,” Cesc whimpered. “Because César saw me talking to you—”

“César?” Kun inhaled, eyes wide as saucers. “Not César.”

“César?” Gary frowned.

“Who the hell is César?” Carra asked.

“César is my flatmate,” Cesc said.

“César is Zaba’s ex-boyfriend,” Kun huffed. “He used to work at the bar. Those two are thick as thieves, they say they’re broken up but hardly anyone believes that.”

“I don’t believe it. Zaba came by our place last night,” Cesc added. 

“Hold on a second,” Carra said, waving his hands at them. “So Zaba and your roommate are shagging, somehow the word gets out that Kun was talking to us, flash forward a couple of hours and Kun’s beaten up outside his flat and Diego Costa is lurking around the nightclub?” Cesc nodded. “All right, Cesc, but where’d he find the time to jump you?”

“Just now. Just before you got here. He rang me, asked me if I’d come down to the Casa Azul to talk to him, and I couldn’t think of an excuse not to come. And that’s when he beat me up.”

“Jesus,” Carra said.

Kun gasped again, looking at his wristwatch. “Oh my god! It’s almost time for curtain! I have to get to the club! Now!”

Gary nodded, ready to dash off with him. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

“But what if Diego is still there!” Cesc wailed.

“Don’t even think about him,” Carra said, pulling Cesc off of him. “Besides, it’ll be easier to nab him if he’s not hiding from us.”

And with that, the four of them took off for the club.

*

Although they’d taken care to try the rear entrance, they were immediately confronted by swarms of Kun’s adoring fans, coming at them like a wave, squealing and begging for his attention. Gary had no idea why anyone would be so invested in flailing over a cheap cabaret act, and he stood back, shielding Cesc from the onslaught of Kun-devotees surrounding them, crying his name.

“It’s alright,” Kun said to his companions, putting on his game face. “I can handle my public. You should go inside and make sure everyone is okay.”

Jamie nodded, turning to Cesc. “You stay here with Kun. It’s safer th—”

“No!” Cesc whimpered. “Please don't leave me here! I don’t feel safe!”

Gary and Jamie shared a look (Gary’s annoyed; Jamie’s exasperated) before the unspoken agreement was made and the three men slipped in the building through the back door.

Immediately, they were overcome with the sense that something was off. The loud, glittering facade which had previously overpowered the place had vanished, replaced by an eerie sort of silence that one never hears in a nightspot, especially not on a Friday night. They were quiet as the walked, tiptoeing, hesitant, hearing nothing but muffled whispers coming from the main ballroom. They crept through the back hallway, cautious, like children sneaking downstairs on Christmas morning, praying they haven’t disturbed their parents.

Jamie took the lead, sure to keep Gary and Cesc behind him in case something went wrong. He didn’t know if Costa was armed, but having seen what had become of Coloccini’s ex, he wasn’t about to take any chances.

Of course, it dawned on him then that the three of them had just barged into the club without any sort of way to defend themselves, and they’d completely neglected to notify the local police. He winced, looking back at the other two with a pained look.

“What is it?” Gary mouthed, not having made the connection himself.

“We’re unarmed,” Jamie mouthed back. 

Cesc’s face crumbled.

“Might not be an issue…” Gary started, cut off by a blood curdling scream from inside the ballroom.

“What was—” Cesc began to ask in a normal volume, stopped short by Gary’s hand over his mouth.

“Shh,” he hissed, hauling Cesc flat against the wall beside him.

Jamie kept ahead of them, sneaking along the wall until he got to one of the hidden side doors, left slightly ajar. He stopped there for several seconds, peering into the ballroom, hidden by shadows so that Gary could scarcely make out his form in the dark. A few moments later, he scurried back toward them.

“It’s Costa. He’s got Joe and Zaba and the dancers tied up on the dance floor,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“You’re joking,” Gary said, eyes wide with disbelief. How the fuck had he managed that? Joe Hart was a big guy, strapping, not one to be taken out so easily, and especially not with his entourage of Argentines in tow. “Is he armed?”

“He’s here? Oh god!” Cesc gasped, fully in despair. “He’s going to hurt them! We have to rescue them!”

“We should call the police,” Jamie said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Cesc, take this and go outside.”

Cesc swallowed, suddenly looking much braver than he had moments before, “But—”

“No arguing with me now, Cesc. Costa’s got a weapon of some sort, and he’s not alone. You have to call for help. Now go. Get out of here.” Jamie forced the mobile into Cesc’s hand and gave him a quick shove back toward the exit. Cesc gaped at him a moment, then scampered back outside.

Gary looked to Jamie, “What about us? What are we going to do?”

Jamie grabbed his hand and made like he was going to say something, only for them both to jump at the sound of approaching footsteps from behind. 

“ — and I swear I heard voices,” someone said, voice coming from the same open doorway where Jamie had just been. “I think someone’s back here.”

Eyes wide, Gary froze in terror, holding fast to Jamie’s hand, unable to move. With no time to think, Jamie acted fast and pulled him along, sprinting for the first available hiding spot. There was a door on the opposite side of the corridor, leading to a room they’d been in before. It was Kun’s dressing room. Jamie ran in quickly, with Gary stumbling in after him, scrambling to shut the door as silently as possible. He then turned the lock for good measure.

Glancing around at their plush surroundings, both men let out a sigh of relief. They were safe, if only for the moment.

*

It had been three hours since Carra left in Pepe’s car, with the promise to phone him as soon as he got to Gary Neville’s house and as soon he’d confirmed the connection between the murder and the burglaries. Carra still hadn’t called. He might be a bit intolerable from time to time, but Carra could generally be counted on to follow through, especially when it came to his job. He was a professional, and more than that, he cared about doing the right thing. Skipping out of town to shag some Manc wasn’t like him, not by a long shot, but Pepe was nearly out of excuses as to why Carra would be incommunicado. 

He was back at the station, going over some of the physical evidence when a young crime scene analyst stopped by his desk with some initial forensics results.

“Quick turnaround,” Pepe said, marveling.

“Don’t get used to it,” the analyst chirped, leaving him to his work.

Inside the file was the results of some fingerprints he’d asked to have run, off the bathroom sink. Unusual that they’d be back so soon, but he wasn’t complaining. He looked it over, stared at the name. Diego Costa, smalltime hood and wannabe bad boy. Priors for assault and hooliganism, amongst other things. Diego Costa’s fingerprint, found at the dead girl’s apartment. It was enough to bring him in, to be sure.

Pepe got out his phone and stared at it for a few halting moments. He needed to call for a warrant, call for some uniforms to pick up Costa from his last known address, to get the job done right. But as he eyed his phone, he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was taking Carra so long. So he decided, the judge could wait. What he really needed to do was check on his partner.

The phone rang and it rang, until it got to the final ring. And then someone answered.

“Hello?” It wasn’t Carra who answered.

“Who is this?” Pepe asked, sitting forward in his chair, instantly on high alert.

“I, uh…” It wasn’t no Manc, either. Not with that kind of accent. Pepe bristled.

“Who is this? Where’s Carra?” He couldn’t help it, in his panic his voice was almost at a shout, catching the attention of other officers passing by. “Answer me, dammit!”

“He’s inside… I…” the voice sounded scared, small. “You’re his partner, right? Please, I need your help…”

*

“Oh fuck,” Gary breathed, shaking from the panic as he turned back to Jamie, reaching out to him. Jamie reached back, fumbling for him shakily. 

“We’ll be fine. They don’t know we’re in here,” he said, trying to soothe him, patting his back. Gary shook his head. “It’ll be alright. Cesc is calling the police right now. Your uniforms will be here in no time.”

“How many of them are there?” Gary asked, deflating a little. 

“I dunno. At least three.”

“And they’ve got those lads all tied up? And they’re armed? Fuck, Jamie! We’re in serious trouble here!”

“You don't think I don't know that?” Jamie asked, pulling away in frustration. He ran his hands through his hair, staring up at the ceiling, like it might provide some guidance. “This is all over my head, and believe me when I say I’m chuffed to admit that. I don’t know what you want me to do, Gary.”

“First thing’s first. We’ve got to get out of here,” Gary brushed by him to unlock the door. However, when he turned the handle, nothing happened. It didn’t budge, not even a smidgen. “Aw, shit.”

“Let me see it,” Jamie said as Gary stepped aside. He fared no better though. It seemed that somehow, someway, they’d managed to break the lock on the door, effectively trapping them in Kun’s luxurious dressing room. “We’re stuck.”

“We can’t be stuck,” Gary insisted, bumping Jamie aside to try the door again.

“It’s no use, Gary. We’re trapped in here, like a pair of bloody useless rats, with Diego Costa running amok and terrorizing the community. And it’s just my luck, ain’t it.” Jamie slumped back against the door, letting his head bang against the wood. 

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Gary said, looking around the room, an idea clearly forming. He spotted what he would need then and dashed to Kun’s dressing table, pulling out random brushes and compacts and jars of body paint until he found precisely what he was looking for— a little jar full of bobby pins. “Out of the way, Carragher. I’ve got work to do.”

Jamie gave him a derisive look from the corner of his eye, scooting to the side. “What are you gonna do? Pick the lock?”

Gary nodded and made a purr of an affirmation as he bent the pin and slipped it into the lock.

“That crap only works in movies,” Jamie said, crossing his arms, watching intently.

Gary only spared him a tiny smirk as he maneuvered the pin just so, entire face lighting up as the lock gave way and the door popped open. “You were saying?”

Jamie stiffened, chewing on his lip. “I could’ve done that.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t.”

“But I could’ve.” He took a step to Gary, a sly grin coming over him. “Come on, mate. I’ll thank you properly later.”

Gary’s smile was practically a sneer. “You’d better.”

They were there, poised to exit the room when suddenly from out in the hall, the door flew in at them and two figures tumbled inside, sending all four to the floor. It was Cesc and Kun.

“Carra!” Cesc gasped, pawing his way on top of him. “Don’t let him hurt me, Carra! Please!”

Kun, meanwhile, had managed to find his feet again and was pointing an accusatory finger at the Catalan. “He’s a little thief, Carra! And a liar! I caught him in the dressing room! He was going through the boys’ lockers! He’s in on this!”

“No, I swear I’m—”

Gary dragged Cesc up by the shoulders, holding the kid firm while Jamie pulled himself up again, rubbing his aching back. “What the hell is going on? Someone explain. Now!”

Kun attached himself to Gary’s arm, gesturing dramatically, “I was tired of waiting outside, and you two hadn’t come out, so I bid my fans adieu and went in through the back, and I heard these strange noises from Nico and Micho’s changing room and that’s where I found this little snake, pawing through their possessions, trying to steal them!”

“I wasn’t, I promise!”

“Cesc, quiet.” Jamie’s voice was commanding, the boy had no choice but to obey.

“He had their wallets, their mobiles. He was going to rob them while that horrible Diego Costa has them at his mercy!” Kun was on the verge of hysterics, prevented from toppling over the edge only by the stern look Gary was giving him.

“Cesc, is all that true?” Gary asked, turning that icy glare to him.

He shook his head, but there was no mistaking the guilt in his eyes. “It isn’t like that! I mean…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Cesc! What’s the matter with you?” Jamie growled, taking him by the shoulders, giving him a rough shaking. “Are you in on this hustle or not? Because I swear to you, if you’re lying to me again, I’ll have my mate here bring you up on every single charge I can find on you. You jaywalked once when you were fifteen? I’ll have him charge you for it. Littering? Bam! Another charge. Your neighbors complained that your music’s too loud? Boy, I’ll get you locked away for so long, nobody’s going to remember you even exist. Now tell me the bloody truth! Are you working with Costa? Are you in on it?”

Cesc didn't say a word. He only hung his head, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Aw, Jesus,” Gary hissed. 

“I had to,” Cesc finally managed. “He said he was going to kill Geri.”

“You little f—” Jamie snarled, tearing away in case he might sock Cesc himself.

“He told me he was going to kill Geri. He said if I didn’t help him tie up the loose ends, Geri would be next, and then me!” The kid began to cry, shoulders shaking, and it looked like he might sink to the floor if not for Kun propping him upright. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Jamie growled, pacing around the room, kicking at the pillows in frustration.

“I’m not lying! I swear it! Carra!” He looked up, horror in his little broken face, seeing only disappointment and rage there. He turned to Gary, pleading for help. “I didn’t want any of this! I just wanted out! I wanted to be left alone! But he wouldn’t let me go! You have to believe me!”

“You’ve given us no reason to trust anything you say,” Gary said, walking over to join Jamie. “And now we’re in here with these mad men, and they’ve got hostages, and we all might be killed. You’ve done us all in, can’t you see that? And let me guess. You didn't actually phone the police, did you.”

Cesc could only sob.

“Fuck!” Jamie nearly roared, kicking one of the innocent pillows over and over again, only stopping his tantrum when Gary put an arm around his middle to steer him away.

“If the police aren’t coming, then it’s up to us to rescue Harty and the boys,” Kun said quietly. “Costa and his men are dangerous. They’ll surely hurt them if we don’t do something about it.”

“Ah, yes. Bright idea from the little starlet,” Jamie muttered. “We go and rescue the boys with what exactly? They’re armed and we’ve got nothing but our fists and this useless, crying bastard. How do you figured we’ll do anything besides get everyone killed?”

Gary kept his arm around Jamie as he looked around the room, grasping for something, anything that might spark his imagination. Then he spotted something sparkling in the light, right in the corner, right in plain sight. “We’ve got more than just our fists, Jamie. Look here.” And he pointed, right at the small collection of prop items laid out for the show. There, amongst the feather headpieces and bowler hats sat one large, glittering, rhinestone encrusted tommy gun.

“No…”

“I’m serious. There’s more of these, aren’t there?” Gary shot a glance at Kun who was giving an enthusiastic nod.

“There’s more in the other changing room. But they aren’t real you know.”

“Does that matter?” Gary asked, grabbing the gun, which was heavy and plastic, the sort of piece one might see in an old gangster flick. If it weren’t for the rhinestones, it’d be a very convincing piece of equipment. “We haven’t got time to get all these gems off, but these might be enough to scare the hell out of Costa and his friends.”

Cesc wiped his eyes, “You’re going to go all Scarface on them?”

“Minus the cocaine and actual gunfire… yes.”

“You’ve lost your mind, Gary,” Jamie said, visibly horrified. “They’ll kill us on the spot.”

“And they’ll kill those sorry lads if we don’t try and save them.” He turned back to Jamie and he felt his cheeks go hot. “Come on, Jamie. Don’t balk on me now.”

“I’m not,” he said, maybe blushing a little. 

“Be a hero, then. We can save those boys. And if we can’t… at least we can try.”

Jamie swallowed, close his eyes, like he was going through some vast internal debate. Gary decided, right then, that he might as well kiss him. So he did, a small, quick one, right on Jamie’s lips. It was enough to jolt him out of his stupor, force him back into reality. 

“What was that for?” Jamie whispered, gasping.

Gary smirked and shrugged. “Thought I might not get another chance to do that, seeing as we might be dying and all.”

“I thought you were mad at me,” Jamie said.

“I am. But I still want to—”

Before Gary could say another word, Jamie put his arms around him and held him close again, and kissed him. Not another chaste little thing like Gary had done, oh no. It was one of those real, electrifying, movie kisses, with lips parting and tongue and panting and fingers in each other’s hair. If this was it, if this was going to be the last kiss they ever had, then by god it was going to be a good one.

When they finally fell apart, catching their breath, looking besotted and wild, they found themselves under the scrutiny of an unimpressed Kun. “Are you finished?”

“Hardly,” Jamie snorted, unable to bite back a smile.

“Behave,” Gary warned him as Kun tossed the guns at them.

Cesc coughed softly. “What about me? What am I going to do?”

Gary narrowed his eyes, staring the Catalan down. “You’re going to help us, Fàbregas. If you really want out, if you really mean to make it right, you’re going to take one of these guns and do exactly as I say. Now, are you in?”

He gulped but gave a nod. “Absolutely.”

“Stellar,” Gary grinned. “Now, here’s the plan…”

*

They split up. Kun went one way, Gary another, leaving Cesc and Carra together as they crept through the maze of corridors to find the main entrance to the building, the one which would lead them to the massive wooden doors and the grand entryway to the ballroom. Cesc had stopped his crying and sniveling, but he managed to maintain basically no space between himself and Carra. It was like he was breathing down Carra’s neck, the way he was latched on, like a baby sloth to its mother. It was annoying, but honestly too risky to push him away, in case it might alert Costa and his crew to their location and scheme. 

Clutching his gun tight, Carra put his ear to the door to listen in on the goings on in the ballroom. Voices low, hushed, speaking in rapid, harsh Spanish, and it’s then that Carra really wished he could understand what the hell they were saying. It was too late for regrets, though. They were mere seconds away from closing the curtains on Diego Costa and his acts of depravity. They only had to wait for their cue, then would be time to make their grand debut.

They stood there, waiting, breathing, and then there was a noise inside. It wasn’t the cue, though, it wasn’t the signal to go in, no. It was a voice, coming closer, getting louder. The voice was calling Cesc’s name.

“Fàbregas?! Where the fuck are you?” Carra’s eyes went wide and he ducked down the hall a ways, back to the wall, praying silently that whoever was stomping toward the door wouldn’t spot him. 

Cesc could only spare him a quick look of panic before he put on a brave face and called back, “Right here, Diego!”

The door swung open and Carra could see the silvery blue light pouring out into the hall just before Cesc disappeared inside, tommy gun and all.

“Did you take care of everything?” Diego asked, voice muffled once again by the solid wood barrier.

“Yes,” came the answer, stilted and small. Carra tried to keep cool, tried to keep calm as he slid along the wall, desperately listening in. When he reached the door, he found it was still partially opened and he did his best to get a good look inside without anyone inside spotting him.

“Where’d you find that thing?” Costa was saying, gesturing at the gun.

Cesc had his back to Carra, facing the stage. Costa and his men were looking at Cesc, surrounding him like sharks at a caged man. Behind them, the stage curtains ruffled lightly, and to their side, one of the hidden doors slowly crept open. Any moment now and it would be the cue. Cesc only needed to deliver a single line, and any line would do.

Instead, Cesc froze, terrified or something, stammering as he clamped onto his prop. “I… I…” He began, and Carra was glad he couldn’t see his face. He wasn’t sure he could handle that sort of abject fear. But then, seemingly from nowhere, the kid seemed to recover, exhaling sharply as he put a hand on his hip. “What? This old thing?” He asked, cocking his head.

Carra stood frozen, praying for something to happen. The four men tied up on the dance floor sat utterly still as well, unable to move or breathe, wondering what the hell Cesc was going to do with a bejeweled prop tommy gun.

Diego nodded, smiling a little, taking the bait. “That’s got to be the gayest gun I’ve ever seen in my life. The hell are you doing with that thing, you stupid!” 

And that was all Cesc needed to spring his trap. Before Costa or any of his crew could stop him, he leapt into action, taking hold of his prop with both hands and swinging it as hard as he could, like a bat, right at Costa’s head, striking him hard enough the the man hit the ground with a very delightful thumping sound.

Cesc stood over his victim and let out an absolutely fiendish giggle before turning to the henchmen. “Who’s next?”

“Jesus Christ!” One of them yelped, jumping away from them. “What the hell is wrong with you?” The other two thugs were not so put off, however and they stalked toward him, clearly prepared to get into the fray.

Cesc started to speak, but was stopped short by a sudden blast of music through the speakers: a bass heavy disco beat, the plaintive melody of a Spanish guitar, and barely intelligible accented voices moaning out an unnecessary cover to a 1960’s folk song. If the situation weren’t so dire, Carra might’ve found it all rather comedic. Leave it to Kun to select the most ridiculous music as the soundtrack to their attack.

As it was, the moment to strike had arrived, and as the song blared into its first verse, the invasion was mounted as Kun threw back the curtains and leapt down from the stage whilst Gary burst in from the side door, gun metaphorically ablaze. And, from the main entrance came Carra too, all three of them charging toward the band of robbers.

It was utter madness, completely ridiculous, and terrifying at that. Who in their right mind would burst in against a gang of armed men with only a toy gun in hand, all to the tune of terrible Italo-disco? It was insanity and it would make a shite way to die, and Carra prayed that if he didn’t make it out alive his family would omit all the circumstances of his death from his obituary. It would be bad enough to die in Manchester, he didn’t need the world knowing the details of his kamikaze run at the Casa Azul.

“What the f—” One of the gangsters cried as he stumbled over Costa’s felled figure on the floor. Cesc stood there, grinning as he watched them, laughing as the robbers were encircled by the liberators. 

But it would not be a peaceful surrender. Costa’s men seemed to quickly recognize that the glittering weapons in hand weren’t actually working firearms. They shouted at each other in Spanish, yelling what had to be instructions to one another. 

That was when Cesc reached out to Carra, to get his attention. “What are you waiting for? Get them!”

But on that cue it wasn’t Carra who attacked: it was Gary. He did just as Cesc had done, drawn back his gun and swung at the first man he made contact with. Instead of hitting him in the head, as Cesc had done, the hoodlum managed to block the strike with his weapon— a lead pipe. The heavy plastic of the prop gun cracked from the blow, but Gary kept at it and suddenly the fight was on. They all seemed to latch on to the same idea, everyone using their weapons and pseudo-weapons to face off in a frantic and highly irregular duel. It was like a sword fight… if instead of swords the opponents instead used plastic tommy guns and bats or pipes.

All the while, Cesc made himself quite useful by untying the hostages and shoving them toward the doors. But shoving a bunch of pissed off Argentines and the behemoth that was Joe Hart was next to useless. Once freed, the four men jumped into action. Carra had his gun up, poised to conk one of the lads right over the head when suddenly Zaba tackled the man to the ground with a raucous roar.

“How dare you disrupt our performance!” Zaba cried, pummeling the now helpless robber. “This is what you get for fucking with artists!”

Carra could only watch as the gang was quickly subdued. Four on eight didn’t make for much of a fair scrap, as it turned out. It was bedlam, sheer chaos, with fists flying and bodies flailing about as the ex-hostages went on the attack.

“You fuckers think you can come in here, into my club, and tie me up?” Joe howled, literally tossing the man who’d been trying to hit Kun across the dance floor. “How dare you?! Motherfuckers!”

“Jesus…” Carra stammered, trying to get out of the way of the colliding bodies. He looked down at his feet to see Diego Costa still lying unconscious on the ground, then scanned the room to see Gary, head back in laughter as Micho and Nico took turns punching one of the men, and he had to admit there was something truly brilliant about everything that was happening. He couldn’t help it, he had to laugh too.

It was at just that moment that the ballroom doors flew open with the shouts of “Manchester Police! Drop your weapons!”

 

*

As it turned out, Gary knew the lead officer at the scene, and after some quick explanations, Diego Costa and his band of misfits were promptly placed under arrest for their attempted assault on the Casa Azul. Witness statements were taken, ambulances arrived to treat the wounded, and somehow, in the midst of it all, Carra and Gary found themselves outside the nightclub with blankets draped over their shoulders, watching the scene unfold all around them in the brown evening haze. Costa and his fellows were cuffed in the back of police cars, sitting parked as they were initially questioned. Hart and Zaba and the others were making their statements. Across the street, Kun sat on the curb, drinking some hot chocolate as he cuddled up with a police dog. 

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Carra said, slouching against the wall. Around them, spectators had gathered at the police-tape barriers, snapping cellphone photos as the uniformed Manchester officers stomped in and out.

“I can’t believe we got out of there alive,” Gary added, rolling his head so that he was looking right at Carra, eyes dark with mischief.

Carra swallowed, lips twitching into half a smile. “Yeah, it was—”

“Utter shambles,” a voice said, ruining the moment. They both looked up, face to face with a cross looking fellow, scribbling away in a notebook. Carra had no idea who he was, but Gary’s whole demeanor seemed to change. 

“Scholesy,” he grinned, clutching the man’s arm. “When’d you get here?”

He gave Gary a friendly hug, pocketing his notes. “I popped over as soon as I heard you were caught up in this mess. I can’t believe what they’re telling me, Gaz. They say you’ve just been in some sort of sword fight.”

Gary snorted, “Nobody had any swords, Paul. But we held our own well enough.”

The pair of them laughed, speaking so quickly that their words all seemed to slur together and Carra couldn’t quite make everything out. They had that sort of familiarity only old friends have, and while he could only make out parts of it, Carra was sure they were close. A sharp pang of jealousy hit him, right in the chest and he blanched a little. He puzzled over where the thought came from until suddenly both men were looking at him and he realized he was being introduced.

“He’s the one I was telling you about,” Gary was saying, voice softening a bit. If Carra didn't know any better, he’d almost say Gary looked shy.

“The Scouse detective?” his friend said, eyebrows raised as he extended a hand to shake. “This is him, huh? Well, well. Paul Scholes, Manchester P.D.”

“Jamie Carragher, from Merseyside,” he said, shaking his hand, glancing to Gary questioningly. For his part, Gary was giving Scholes a warning look.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. This lad won’t shut up about you… eh, helping with the investigation and all. What was it you were telling me this morning? ‘That Carra’s a bloody brilliant detective? Couldn’t have gotten this far without him? Can’t wait till he’s back here and on the case?’ Is that what it was, Nevs? I can’t quite recall.”

Carra choked a little, a slow, wicked grin coming over him as he ignored Gary’s splutters of protest. “He said all that?”

Scholes shrugged casually. “And a bit more. But I needn’t embarrass him further.”

Carra grinned, looking to Gary. “Oh yeah? You cheeky little shit.”

“Shut up, you muppet!” Gary hissed, swatting at Scholes, who deftly avoided it. “It’s not the time for this anyway. How’s the investigation going? They’ve got enough to lock those idiots up this time?”

“Assuming the prosecutor’s office won’t botch everything, yes.”

Gary rolled his eyes.

“We’ve got Costa and his crew up on charges of kidnapping, attempted robbery, assault, battery… and he illegally parked his car a few blocks back, so we’ll add that to the heap as well.”

“Good man,” Gary said. “Throw whatever else you can at him, too. Let’s make it stick and send him away for a long time.”

“How does murder sound?”

The three men looked then to see an unexpected trio standing there, past the police lines. It was Pepe, flanked by Stevie and Xabi, both of whom looked exhausted and unamused. 

“Sorry to turn up uninvited,” Pepe said with a wink. “But a little birdie told me we might find one Diego da Silva Costa lurking around here.”

“You might,” Scholes said, a bit ruffled. “And you are…?”

“Pepe Reina.”

“He’s my partner,” Carra said. “And these are me mates, Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, from Merseyside P.D.”

“We’ve got a warrant for Costa. His fingerprints were all over our murder scene,” Pepe said, handing Scholes the paperwork. Gary leaned in to look it over too. “We’re to search his apartment here in Manchester as well… but we could certainly use some help from the locals.”

Scholes nodded, handing him the warrant back. “We’ll work something out. Let me make some phone calls.” 

He disappeared then, leaving poor Gary surrounded by Liverpudlians. He shifted, glancing at Carra expectantly.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Xabi said, breaking the tension. Carra looked to him, annoyed. The Spaniard seemed unfazed, taking it upon himself to introduce everyone as Stevie and Pepe both shared a pleased, knowing glance.

“So you’re Gary Neville,” Stevie said, shaking his hand. 

“You’ve heard of me?” Gary asked, pointedly not looking at Carra.

“Of course we have,” Pepe chortled, locking eyes with Carra then. “You’re the Manc cunt that—”

“We’ve only heard pleasant things,” Xabi soothed, inserting himself between Steven and Pepe. “Haven’t we, Steven.”

“Yeah. Very pleasant things,” Stevie said robotically. If looks could kill, Carra would’ve struck the Scouse bastard dead.

Gary arched an eyebrow at them, somehow managing to keep his mouth shut. Carra figured he must’ve recognized that he was outnumbered.

“Right, so, you’ve all met Gary,” Carra said, hoping to wrestle away control of the conversation. “Now do you mind telling me how the hell you all managed to find us here?”

Pepe grinned, slinging an arm around Carra’s shoulders. “That’s a terrific question, seeing as you neglected to check in after you took off.”

“That weren’t on purpose, we were just—”

“Busy, I know. So I decided to call you, once we got Costa’s prints confirmed.”

Carra frowned and reached into his pocket, finding only his keys inside. He made a noise of surprise, looking back to meet Pepe’s twinkling smile.

“A little friend of yours answered.”

“Cesc,” Gary said. “Cesc’s got your phone.”

“Right you are,” Pepe chirped, waggling a finger at him. “He told me the situation and where you were, so I phoned the police up here. And then I figured, hey, if Costa’s there already, why not kill two birds with one stone? But of course, you had my car, Carra.”

“Oi.”

“So that is why we have come also,” said Xabi as he fumbled with his lighter, lighting a cigarette. “To give you and Pepe a ride home.”

Those bastards. What good friends they were, coming all the way to hell to get him home safely. Carra was touched, he really was, but as he turned to look at Gary and their eyes met, his stomach sank and he realized, maybe he wasn’t ready to go home. Not just yet, anyway.

He fished into his pocket again and dug out Pepe’s keys, handing them to him. “Here, you bastard. I didn’t wreck it and it’s parked legally and everything.”

“What about the tank?”

“Sod the tank. I’ll pay you next week, for crying out loud.”

“I’ll allow it, but only because I know where you live and can come to collect at anytime. Anyways, who’re you riding with?” Pepe asked, pocketing his keys.

“I’m not,” Carra said, hands stuffed into his pockets, smirking a little as Stevie choked on all the smoke surrounding him and Xabi.

“What’d you mean? You staying here, Carra?” Stevie asked, leveling his best friend with one of those looks, the kind that can turn on a dime from being joyous to offended. After a moment though, Stevie looked to Gary, seeming like a sort of over-protective mother hen worried about her chick getting gobbled up by some crafty fox. “Is he staying with you? Is that what’s going on here?”

Beside him, Xabi rolled his eyes, “Oh Steven, really.”

Gary blinked a few times, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “He can stay with me if he likes. But he’s got to know tomorrow’s Saturday, and there’s not a chance in hell we’ll be watching Liverpool.”

Though he silently cursed the poor luck of the calendar, Carra felt like a man on fire, and not because he thought he was gonna get laid either. He couldn’t explain the rush of energy he suddenly felt despite having not slept in two days. Maybe it was just the adrenaline of the day’s event. It had been extremely exciting, after all. But he knew himself, and he knew what he was feeling. It wasn’t just the result of a life or death battle against a criminal deviant and his lowlife followers. No, it was more than that. Carra felt sheer elation at the thought of sleeping beside someone, and not just anyone. It had to be Gary. He’d forgo watching Liverpool play (not forever, mind, but just this once) if it meant he could lay down with him for awhile and just be. He hadn't felt that way in a long time, maybe not ever, and if missing a November match in a season that was less than brilliant was the price to pay, then he’d sign the waiver. He’d give it up, if that’s what the Manc bastard wanted from him.

He wasn't going to say that though. Instead he mumbled some sloshy curses under his breath and Gary laughed at him. It didn’t matter anyway. The red of his cheeks was enough to give him all away.

“This is serious business, Carra.” Stevie said, biting back either a frown or a smile, Carra couldn't tell which. 

“It’s not that serious,” Xabi mused. Beside him, Pepe tittered.

“What d’ya… oh quiet, Xabs. You stay out of this.” Stevie waved a hand at him, tuning out Xabi’s sly snort. He grabbed Carra’s sleeve, tugged him aside, lowered his voice. “This how it is? You and that guy?”

Carra scowled at him, “That guy. Christ, Stevie.”

“I didn’t know you were actually in love with him.”

Carra really went red then. “Don’t even say that, you bastard. That’s you speculating. That’s you putting words in me mouth.”

Stevie stared, smile coming over him slowly, turning from one of those delightful smiles into a full on shit eating grin. “You’re not even denying it properly. You can’t. Oi, I swear, I never thought I’d live to see the day. Jamie Carragher’s in love, and with a Manc cunt at that!” He turned, motioning to Xabi, “Eh, Xabi! Guess what!”

“Carra is in love, I know.” Xabi took a long drag of his cigarette.

“We all know,” Pepe added.

Stevie glared at them while Carra stuttered and fumed. Gary meanwhile stood there with his eyebrows raised, looking like he would very much like to contribute to the order of things, but the conversation skidded to a halt with the arrival of one Catalan brat sprinting toward them, practically launching himself at Carra.

“They’re gonna arrest me! Help me!” Cesc sobbed, arms wrapped around Carra’s middle, like Carra was a tree and he was a shaggy little sloth.

“They’ve every right to arrest you, you grubby little thief,” Carra said, prying Cesc’s sharp little fingers from his sides. “Where’s my phone, Cesc? Give it here, it’s worth more than you are to me.”

Cesc pouted and released his grip before presenting Carra with his phone. “Don’t let them arrest me, Carra! I won’t last a day in prison!”

“You were in on the whole thing. And you lied about your involvement from the very start,” Gary pointed out, looking quite stern.

“But it wasn’t my fault!” Cesc whined. 

Beside him, Carra was inspecting his phone, scrutinizing the call log. “One call in, three calls out to the same number, and none to the police. Cesc, you muppet. What the hell were you doing?”

The kid looked bashful then, and had the audacity to make those googly eyes at Carra again. “I was only calling Titi.”

“Who the hell is Titi?”

“He’s my solicitor,” Cesc said, pursing his lips.

“Brilliant,” Gary said as he put himself between Cesc and Carra. “Because you’re going to need him. Why, there’s got to be half a dozen charges I could bring you up on. Conspiracy, party to a kidnapping, making false statements to a police officer, assault, attempted petty theft. Need I go on?”

He shook his head, contrite as could be. “No, please. I know I’ve made my mistakes. I’ve tried to be a good person and I’ve been terrible at it, I know this. But I didn’t want to do any of it! I just wanted to start fresh, I—”

“That’s enough, Cesc,” someone said. There was a man, ducking beneath the police tape to approach them. The policemen amongst the group all raised their voices in protest, but it was too late to truly prevent his joining them. 

“Titi!” Cesc cried, throwing himself at the tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome man, who quickly and gently righted the boy and gave his hair a little fluffing. “Oh thank goodness, Titi! Mister Neville says he’s going to have me sent away! But I didn’t mean to do bad! And if it weren’t for me, Diego Costa might’ve hurt even more people, and—”

“All right, Cesc, you’ve said plenty. Now shut your mouth and let me handle it.” He spoke kindly, with that worn out paternal sort of air that Carra figured was key to dealing with an overgrown child like Cesc. He looked to the group, offering up his most charming smile. “You’ll have to forgive my client. As you well know, he’s got a knack for not knowing when to shut up. I’m Thierry Henry, by the way. I suppose he’s to be arrested then.”

Carra and Gary looked to each other, neither quite sure what to say. At last, Gary cleared his throat, “Well, he’s in a lot of trouble, and I’m personally in no position to be offering up any plea bargains.”

“But…?” Titi asked, almost sinister.

Gary swallowed, folding his arms. “But, I’d be a lot more amiable to chatting it over with my bosses at CPS if that client of yours would learn to keep his hands off of my boyfriend.”

*

Carra couldn’t recall much else of the conversation. He was too dumbstruck to function. Instead he somehow wound up around the corner, sitting on some stoop, with Xabi’s arm around his shoulder, sharing a cigarette with him.

“What the hell just happened?” He asked, finally regaining the ability to speak.

Xabi looked back at his with those mischievous cat eyes of his, like he was staring right through his soul. “You have a boyfriend now, I think.” He passed the cigarette back to Carra, raising his eyebrows. “You’re in love, Carra.”

“Well, I don’t want to be,” he spat, shaking his head like it might clear things up.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Of course you do. Who does not want to be in love?”

“Me.”

Xabi tutted. “Tell me, what is it like?”

Carra glared at him, hard, disbelieving. “What d’ya mean ‘what’s it like’? You’re in love, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“So then you know what it’s like. It’s misery.”

“No, it’s not. It’s heaven.” 

Carra watched in awe, or perhaps in horror, as Xabi had a sort of dreamy look come over him. It made him roll his eyes, it was so unnecessary. “I don’t ever want to be like you two. You’re disgusting, swooning and fawning over each other all the time. ‘Oh, Steven, let’s pick out a china pattern’, ’Oi, Xabi, sit here while I give you a list of all the annoying things you do that I find hideously charming’. Ugh, no. I don’t want that.”

“You don’t think you’ve been swooning over Gary all night?” Xabi asked, calm as can be as he plucked the cigarette back from Carra.

He stopped himself, before he could say no and dismiss it all, because really, he knew it was true. If he were to be honest with himself, he’d admit he halfway swooned over every little thing Gary said and did. Like when he’d popped that lock in Kun’s dressing room. Man, he’d been proud of that. Or when he’d looked over, during the fight, to see Gary triumphant and laughing, completely unafraid. The little things, the creases in his face, the way he scowled, the sharp, grating sound of his laugh, or when he started talking so fast, like he’d just talk over everyone, like the world needed to shut up and listen to what he had to say. These weren’t things Carra normally noticed or fancied in a person, much less a fucking Manc, and yet here he was, beside himself, besotted. 

“It’s different,” he said finally, voice soft. 

“Of course it is,” Xabi said. “You’re not the same as us. You are different people. Love isn’t the same way for everybody.”

“I think I’m in love with him.”

“That’s good.”

“But I hardly even know him.”

Xabi gave him one of those cryptic looks again, the ones that drove Carra positively mad. “You will.”

Stevie and Pepe appeared then, rounding the corner toward them. “Time to go, lads,” Pepe announced, offering a hand to drag Carra up to his feet. 

Xabi stood too and dusted himself off before slinking over to rest his head on Stevie’s shoulder. “Good. I’ve got a headache and a shift in the morning.”

“What about the case? What about Costa?” Carra asked.

“Boss is reassigning it,” Pepe explained. “He says it’s become too personal for some of us and doesn’t want any accusations of mishandling the investigation.”

“Do I have to go home?” 

Stevie raised an eyebrow. “No. But you’ve got to come in on Sunday to make an official statement on what’s gone on here tonight. Think you can handle it?”

He nodded. “Where’s Gary?”

“He’s talking with that solicitor still, or something. I dunno.”

Carra gave Stevie a dirty look but was immediately silenced by Xabi’s knowing, icy stare. So he just stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked away. “Right. I’ll see you lot on Sunday then. Drive safe.”

And with that, he headed back to the front of the club, where Gary and Titi and that Scholes fellow were standing there together. He approached them, not caring a word about what they had to say, joining them, wordlessly finding himself right in the fold.

“There you are,” Gary smirked, looking him up and down. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“Had to clear me head,” he said, anxiously playing with his mobile in his pocket. “What else’ve we got to do now? I’m tired. I haven’t slept in two days.”

“Nothing for now,” Scholes said. “But expect to hear from us very soon. We’ll be needing your assistance as the investigation unfolds.”

Carra nodded, then jumped a little when Gary touched his arm. “We’re going home, then,” Gary announced. “Ring me in the morning, yeah? And Henry, keep that little minx out of trouble for once. I can’t help him anymore than I have. My boss is all ready to skin me alive for putting a word in already.”

“I assure you, my client is prepared to fully cooperate in the Crown’s case.”

“Good,” Gary said, tugging Carra away. “Come on, mate. Let’s go home.”

*

They rode back to Gary’s place in a taxi. Carra fell asleep on the way, having scooted across the backseat to lay his head on Gary’s shoulder. He recalled, just before he passed out, that Gary had one hell of a bruise on his neck. Then he belatedly remembered that he’d been the one to leave that hickey, and he made a noise of satisfaction before falling asleep.

*

They were lying in Gary’s bed together, stripped down to just their underwear, not doing anything besides listening to each other breathing. And it was nice. It was… nicer than anything Carra had done in a long time. Beside him, Gary shifted and pulled him closer, dragged him so that he was lying most of the way on top of him, head to his chest. Carra chuckled, then sighed, the made a sort of satisfied purr as Gary ran his fingers through his hair.

“That’s good,” he mumbled, lips barely moving against Gary’s skin. “I like that.”

Gary snorted at him and kept it up. “Your friends seem nice.”

Carra snorted back. “They were behaving themselves. They’re normally horrible.”

Gary laughed.

“I’m not joking. They’ve been nasty to me all week.”

“Have you been nasty back?”

“Maybe. But only a little. And only because they deserved it.”

Gary sighed, tugging his hair. Carra responded by kissing his chest.

“Is it true what your mate said?”

Carra tilted his head slightly, so he could see Gary’s face better. “I dunno. What’d he say?”

“That you’re in love with me.”

Part of him wanted to shrink away, become small, disappear. It wasn’t part of the plan, it had never been his intention to get involved in all of this crap and wind up in love. He hadn’t even done it to get into Gary’s pants. He’d done everything because he wanted to do the right thing. All the other stuff was extra. But as he looked at him, lost himself in those dark eyes, as he listened to him breathing, he couldn’t help but think that if he had to do it over, he’d do it all again, and maybe this time he’d be honest and accept that he’d started to love this fucking Manc bastard the very moment they spoke to each other at court, and every moment they spent together he’d somehow managed to slip a little further into complete insanity.

He licked his lips and drew in a short breath and just nodded. “I think so, yeah.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Gary laughed, throwing his head back into the pillow, pulling him closer, more flush against his body. 

“You’re the one who called me your boyfriend,” he pointed out, feeling slightly petulant. “So is it true? Am I your boyfriend, Gary?”

Gary stopped laughing then, pulling an almost comical face. “Do you want to be?”

“I just let me mates rib me for saying I fancied you, and now you’re asking me that.”

“And I said you were my boyfriend, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“So I reckon that means you’re my boyfriend.”

“Fine then. We’re boyfriends, I guess.”

Gary snickered and resumed petting his hair.

“That’s such a stupid word though,” Carra said. “Makes me feel like we’re thirteen.”

“What’re we supposed to say then?”

“I dunno. Something a little less…”

Gary shook his head, then put on his best scouse accent, “Oi, this is me best fella. We’re not shacked up, but we’re shaggin’, and he even makes me breakfast in the mornin’ ‘fore he turns me out. I tell ye, if that’s not love, mate…”

“That was atrocious. I’m absolutely offended and you should be embarrassed for putting that out in the world.” Carra said, nuzzling his chest. “Besides, we haven’t shagged yet.”

“I thought you were too tired.”

“I am too tired,” he said. “But it’s the weekend. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten.”

“Horny bastard” Gary murmured fondly.

“Mm?” Carra sighed, kissing his collarbone, admiring the bruise on his throat again. “Gonna have to give you another one of these, so’s everyone knows you’re my boyfriend.”

“Don’t you dare. I’ve got to go in on Monday and explain all this business to my boss. Imagine he sees my neck all bitten up. He’ll think I’ve gone mental.”

“Your boss won’t mind, probably be glad you’re getting some.”

He rolled his eyes. Carra just grinned.

“Hey. D’you mean what you said before?”

“What did I say before?” Gary asked, closing his eyes, getting comfortable again.

“That I can’t watch Liverpool tomorrow.”

“We watch one club in my house, Jamie. And they wear a different, better shade of red.”

Carra elbowed his stomach, just for spite, then twisted in bed so he could shimmy down and kiss it, looking up at Gary’s expectant expression as he kissed his way down Gary’s middle, leaving a little trail of saliva in his wake.

“Thought you were too tired,” Gary breathed, sitting up on his elbows.

Carra’s hand traced along Gary’s side, down to the waistband of his underwear as he planted several small kisses along his navel, pausing to speak between breaths, pleased at the reaction he was getting. “I am too tired. But I—”

“Much as I’d love for you to suck me off right now, I’d rather you not fall asleep midway through,” Gary said, breathless and agitated. “And I don’t feel right using football as a bargaining chip to get a blowjob.”

“The blowjob’s got nothing to do with it. I’d give you a blowjob either way.”

Gary settled back into the bed, arms around Carra to pull him back up again. “Right well, how about you give me a blowjob in the morning and I’ll make you breakfast after.”

“And then what? Do I get a blowjob too?”

“No. You get breakfast.”

*

They didn’t have breakfast, and Gary didn't get his blowjob, as they ended up sleeping until well past noon. And that was fine. It had been a long couple of days, and there would be more to come for everyone involved. They’d be fools not to take advantage of the chance to sleep.

Gary woke first, sitting upright and at first startled to find Jamie’s arm draped across his middle. But he relaxed again as he gazed down at his sleeping form, snickering softly as Jamie snored, undisturbed. He sat still, watching him for a few minutes, both too lazy and too comfortable to want to move. Jamie was warm beside him, content and at ease, and it was so very tempting to want to spend the rest of the day just lying there with him. Forget needing to eat or piss, forget the body aches that come from lying in one place for too long, forget that Manchester United were on the telly in forty-five minutes and—

Okay, maybe not that part. He managed to gently extract himself from Jamie’s grasp and managed to only smirk a little as he winced in his sleep, then immediately expanded into the space left behind. Gary yawned and stretched and quietly put on some clothes, sparing a glance back at Jamie before heading to the kitchen to put some tea on.

What was he doing, exactly? The thought occurred to him as he started to straighten up Kun’s mess in the living room. What was he planning to do with Jamie Carragher? He knew he liked him. They got on awfully well, all differences aside, but therein lay the root of his doubts. What was he doing chasing after some scouse cop? Gary didn't like the idea of just doing something to do it. He wasn't the type to lead people on, but was it realistic that they might actually try to be together? Really? He was amenable to trying, he was, but… David had fucked him over so royally, blindsided him so completely, he could barely stomach the idea of that all over again. Maybe it’d be easier to just casually see Jamie. On the weekends, they could see each other, or something, or…

Or not, because the mere thought of not seeing Jamie made him feel off kilter. He knew what was happening. He knew he was sick and blinded by lust and giddy with the excitement of maybe actually being in a relationship again. He had to table those fluttery feelings and start thinking rationally again. Could he actually see himself in a relationship with Jamie?

He stopped dead as he stooped to pick the Xbox controllers up off the floor before deciding yeah, he thought he could.

“Oh my god, what time is it?”

He turned quickly to see Jamie standing there in his underwear still, stretching as he padded over to the sofa, on which he collapsed, like it was his own. Gary watched him, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re up just in time. United’s on in thirty.”

“Oh joy,” Jamie said, flopping an arm over his eyes, giving Gary quite a nice view, whether he’d intended to or not. Gary figured it was probably the former, and he stared unabashedly. “Then after that’s Liverpool.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on, Gary. Don’t break me heart like that.”

“You knew the rules and you agreed to them,” Gary grinned, tucking the game console and the rest of the things Kun had dug out in their right places again. He walked over to the sofa then, arms folded as he studied the attractive display before him. 

“Don’t you care to renegotiate?” Jamie asked, peeking past his arm, obviously pleased by Gary’s proximity and reaction. “You’re a barrister. Aren’t you wild about that sort of thing?”

Gary groaned and shook his head, then picked up Jamie’s legs so he could slide onto the sofa too. Jamie let his feet fall into Gary’s lap and he dropped his arm so he could see him better, smiling when their eyes met at last.

“Jamie,” Gary said, tone somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Hm?”

“Do you really want to be my boyfriend?”

Jamie snorted and gave him a look before playfully kicking Gary in the gut. “You’re a smart one, Gary Neville. Would I still be here, ready to subject myself to ninety minutes of absolute torture in the form of lackluster football if I didn’t?”

“You really like me then?” Gary asked.

“Of course I do. I’m already halfway in love with you, in spite of the nonstop abuse I've been subjected to. No Liverpool in your house. No sex until the weekend. Won’t even reciprocate me offer for a blow. That’s harsh, Gary. Never mind that I’ve risked my job and my dignity amongst my friends to crash here at yours. I slept in your bed. I’m half naked on your couch with my feet in your lap instead of home with me mates. Because why? I want to be with you. How’s that sound?”

“I could barely understand you, but I think I got the point.”

Jamie let out a sharp laugh and grinned, “Yeah? You got it?” Gary nodded and Jamie’s smile intensified. “So can I watch the boys or no?”

Gary shook his head and reached to the coffee table for the remote control, ignoring his protests. “Let’s just see how my team fairs. Then we can reassess the situation.”

Jamie seemed to take that as a victory, making himself right at home as Gary found the pre-show talking heads yapping about some analysis that was both boring and wrong. After about thirty seconds of listening to unamusing banter he pressed the mute button and turned to face Jamie.

“Listen,” he said, sounding quite serious all of a sudden. 

Jamie sat up on his elbows, almost alarmed. “Yeah?”

“Listen, if we’re gonna be together, we’ve got to get some things cleared up.”

“Okay…” Jamie swallowed, looking apprehensive and somewhat ridiculous in just his skivvies. And also distractingly attractive, Gary could give him that much.

For his part, Gary looked mostly perplexed, brows furrowing, lips in a scowl as he attempted to ignore Jamie sprawled out as he was. “Like, I don’t know which day’s your birthday. I don’t know about your parents. I don’t know if you’ve got sisters or brothers, or what you like on your pizza or where you’ve always wanted to go on holiday or what you want to do when you’re sixty or anything like that, and you say you’re halfway in love with me.”

“And I dunno any of that stuff about you either, s’why I said halfway.” Jamie sat up, carelessly licking his lips, and as he did his feet moved from Gary’s lap, leaving him feeling vaguely cold. Gary put a hand out, then paused, catching his watchful eye before resting his hand on Jamie’s knee. 

In response, Jamie gave him a cheeky smile. “So why don’t you tell me your birthday and about your folks and what you like on your pizza and what d’ya want to be when you’re sixty and everything, and maybe by the time we’re through I won’t just be halfway in love with you. How’s that for a deal?”

Gary swallowed, eyes darting between the television and Jamie, smiling and recumbent and looking absolutely delectable, watching him patiently, like he knew exactly what Gary would do, which was ridiculous because Gary didn't even know himself. With kick off only minutes away, he was suddenly met with the temptation to say sod the game, crawl on top of Jamie, kiss him and tell him absolutely everything he could ever want to know. It would be so easy to crawl on top of him, to pin him down, kiss him, bite him… and so easy to forget everything else, throw caution to the wind and just let himself fall the rest of the way in love with him.

So he did. He tossed the remote to the floor, and before Jamie could react, Gary was on top of him, lips pressed to his, gentle and affectionate and needy, Jamie’s fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close, so tight, like he never wants to let go.

 

*

He wound up sucking Jamie off on the sofa while United played (and won) in the background. That hadn’t been part of the plan. He’d fully intended to just kiss him once or twice and then sort shit out during halftime, maybe. But once he’d got his hands on him and felt Jamie’s dick going hard against him it all went to pot. Before he could stop himself, he’d pulled Jamie’s underwear down over his hips, and things only escalated from there.

Not that Jamie had complained or anything. On the contrary, he seemed taken aback, but infinitely pleased, watching Gary with lips parted, panting, mumbling something that would have been unintelligible even if Gary were fully fluent in scouse, and when he came he made a sort of vulnerable, broken sound that made Gary shudder involuntarily.

“You want me to—?” Jamie started to ask, after he’d caught his breath, as Gary reached for a napkin. 

“No,” Gary said, spitting and wiping his mouth. “Later.”

He didn’t bother searching for the remote again until after the Liverpool match had finished and they’d been lying on the sofa for hours, useless and happy and tangled up in each other, and well armed with loads of sordid and intimate details about one another’s pasts, presents, and futures. Birthdays, families, pizza topping preferences, all sorts of stupid and boring little snapshots of each other’s lives that were somehow the most important and significant facts. Gary didn’t hang on Jamie’s every word, but he came awfully close— a lot closer than he’d care to admit, even to himself, and as they laid there on the sofa, laughing and talking and just looking at each other, he realized how little it actually took to fall the rest of the way in love with somebody. 

“Ugh, don’t want to go back in the morning,” Jamie groaned, burying his nose against Gary’s throat. Somewhere along the line they’d swapped positions and he’d ended up on top. “Don’t want to leave you.”

Gary was tempted to tell him he should stay, tell him he could, but he didn’t. Instead he just carded his fingers through Jamie’s hair and stared absently at the highlights from the second half of Liverpool’s decisive win.

 

*

Nice as it would've been to spend the rest of the weekend in Manchester (and whoever thought he’d be thinking that thought?) Carra was an adult and a professional, and so he boarded his morning train to Liverpool, leaving Gary behind, with the promise to call him that night. Reports had to be filed, and he was likely going to get hell for everything anyways, so he may as well man up and face it head on. They’d parted ways with another of those movie kisses, except this time there was something different to it, like something had changed from the night before. There was this new sort of intensity to it, a feeling of heat that seemed to take over his whole body and wouldn't let him go, even after they drew apart to catch their breath.

God, but he didn’t want to go into work. Sod it all.

He sat at his desk filled out the necessary paperwork and later in the morning had an interview with the new lead investigators on the Costa affair, and it all seemed to be sorted, more or less. He was restless, anxious, wondering if he couldn’t maybe catch a train back out of town, if he could spend the evening out there fooling around. It seemed doable. He could spend a few ours there and be back and rested for the morning. But his idyllic fantasies of domestic bliss were tabled when a familiar face appeared before him, coffee cups in hand, like a peace offering.

“How was it, Carra?” Stevie asked as he pushed one of the cups across the desk to his mate. 

Carra tried not to give himself away. He was already in turmoil and in no mood to be razzed about it. He took hold of the cup and gave a shrug, an attempt at being casual. “It was fine.”

“Just fine?” Stevie snorted, taking a seat across from him. “You were out of your head the other night, saying you’d stay in Manchester with him. And it was just fine? Just all right?”

He choked on his coffee, coughed sharply, realizing quickly that any delusions he had about keeping mum on the topic of his love life would be for naught. It was Stevie he was talking to. He had a mouth on him anyways, and adding Gerrard into the mix only made the chances that he’d wind up spilling his soul about being really and truly in love increase by about tenfold. So he drew a breath and set his cup down, shaking his head as he dragged his warmed fingers through his hair. “I love him. I’m fucking in love with a Manc. The fuck is wrong with me?”

Stevie’s face lit up, eyes sparkling with mischief and daring as he glanced behind to make sure the coast was clear of any and all eavesdroppers. “You’re not taking the piss then? This is serious?”

“Steven,” Carra said, leaning in, solemn all of a sudden. “Have you ever known me to make declarations of love about anyone, let alone a bloody Manc?”

“No. Never.” 

“Steven,” Carra repeated, dropping his voice as low as he could manage (quite a feat for him). “He fucked me in the shower last night and I think I might have seen Jesus Christ himself.”

“Oh my god!” Stevie gagged, his face a palish green.

“I know. It was a religious experience.”

“Carra, Jesus. No.”

He saw then an opportunity for revenge. He wasn’t mad at Stevie, not precisely, but he was tired of hearing about the endless qualities of Xabi Alonso all the time, and if Stevie was really going to marry the bastard, then why not have a bit of fun with it. Besides, it was nice to not be the one squirming for once in his life. “Have you ever had sex so good it was like… you’d gone to a whole new level? Because I haven’t. Or I hadn’t. Last night I did… Fuck, Stevie. I never knew it could be that good.”

Stevie stared at him, horrified, like he might be tempted to pour his coffee into his lap just so he’d have an excuse to abruptly leave.

“Gary has a huge cock.”

“W-what…?”

“Fucking massive. Really big and thick. Manchester cock.”

“Please never say those words to me ever again.”

“And he fucked me so hard I honestly can’t explain how I’m sitting here talking to you right now. Fucking…”

“You’ve gone mental,” Stevie said, standing up quickly. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” Xabi asked, appearing from essentially out of nowhere, as was his way.

“I don’t know,” Stevie said, colliding with him briefly. “Away from this pervert. Guard yourself, Xabs. Carra’s out of sorts.”

As he left, Carra called after him, “See you at lunch, mate.”

Perplexed, Xabi took Steven’s vacant seat, helping himself to his abandoned coffee. “So it was good?”

Carra tried to look glib. “What are you…?”

“I’m not so easily flustered as Steven is. I can tell when you are, what is the phrase? Blowing steam.” He sipped his drink casually, then shrugged. “But I know when you are being honest, Carra. That Manc has got you bad, hasn’t he.”

Carra froze, recalling what Xabi had said to him before they’d all left the nightclub, that he’d get to know Gary and get to love him. And, although it had seemed so basic and so obvious, it was true. The more he’d learned, the deeper in he got. Plus there was the mind-blowing sex. That sure didn’t hurt anything. Carra thought Gary was the best shag he’d ever had in his life, and it wasn’t just because he’d been experiencing a rather lengthy dry spell either. And it wasn’t just sex. Part of him wished he could say it was, but he couldn’t deny what he was feeling. He was fucking in love, and yeah, they’d fucked, but they’d actually fucking made love. How many people could say that? A lot, probably, but he’d never been able to say that before, so that made it different. That made it special.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

“I know,” Xabi said, watching him intently.

Carra swallowed hard, words coming out before he even realized what he was saying. “What should I do?”

“Bring him to my birthday party,” Xabi said.

“Huh?”

“You remember, yes? The party Steven has been planning for me on Friday. You remember? He is going to propose.”

He winced a little and nodded, glancing back at the calendar on the wall indicating that Friday would mark the day.

“I am not supposed to know, but he’s hired an event coordinator. It will be a big to-do.”

“Yeah,” Carra sighed. “I remember.”

“Bring your Manc with you. I want to get to know him better.” And with that, Xabi retreated again, leaving Carra alone to straighten out his heart and his head.

*

All he could think about the rest of the day was Gary, about how they’d finally rolled off the sofa together and somehow made their way to the bathroom. There’d been no intentions to have sex, not on his part anyway, not unless Gary wanted to. He should’ve been wiser though, considering they were both naked and buzzing from adrenaline, half hard from all that time spent just being near each other. 

He’d barely rinsed the shampoo from his hair when Gary started kissing him. He’d laughed, a little surprised, but in a good way, pulling Gary under the spray along with him.

“You’re cold,” Carra grinned against his cheek, enjoying the way his stubble scraped up his lips.

“So warm me up, greedy bastard,” Gary laughed, and Carra held him close, hips rocking against him on their own accord, stomach dropping a little as he felt Gary’s erection pressing into his thigh. “You’re hard again,” Gary observed teasingly. “Thought I already took care of that.”

“Mmhm, but that was hours ago.”

“And I still haven’t got mine.”

Carra eased back slightly, catching sight of the lingering bruise on Gary’s neck. He couldn’t help but smirk proudly. “You want me to suck you off?”

“No.”

“No?” Carra blinked, water getting in his eyes.

“No,” Gary drawled, fingers tracing along Carra’s shoulder, then his spine, then down, down, down until he was practically cradling his arse.

Carra shivered a little, catching the drift right away. “Yeah? You wanna fuck me?”

“Can I?” Carra gave a little laugh (not a teasing one, mind) at the desperate, wild look in Gary’s eyes. He hadn’t had anyone look at him like that, not in a very long time.

“Shite,” Carra exhaled, suddenly nervous. “I… Yeah, but you better take it fucking easy on me, mate. I don’t usually—”

He shut up then, because he felt like Gary might eat him alive, the way he was looking at him. Nervous as he might be, Carra was overcome by some other emotion then. It was powerful, so strangely powerful, and so overwhelming, he almost felt weak in the knees. The only thing he could do to stop from losing his mind was lean in and kiss Gary again, swaying into him as Gary’s arms curled around him and they melted together beneath the hot curtain of water.

Gary pulled away the, cupping Carra’s cheek for a moment before turning from him. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“You’d better,” he said as Gary stepped out of the shower. He stood there alone, shivering despite the heat and reached for the bar of soap, lathering it up, giving his cock a few careless strokes before slowly, tentatively reaching behind himself. With a slow exhale he let the water warm and relax him and he hesitantly began to prepare himself, working his fingers inside. 

“Quit wanking in there,” Gary called from outside the shower, voice getting louder as he approached.

“Piss off, I’m not,” Carra snorted.

Gary poked his head in then and their eyes met, and in spite of himself, Carra might have sighed a little. Pleased by this, Gary stepped in again and held out a little bottle of lube. “It’s better than soap, you realize.”

Carra took it from him, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “You wanna fuck in here, then.”

Gary nodded, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, with the water going, with you all wet and sopping and begging me for it.”

He laughed at that, breathless and impossibly hard again. “Ah, yeah? I’ll be begging for your cock, huh? We’ll see about that, Neville.”

“I want to hear you screaming my name.”

“Is that what turns you on?”

“I want to hear you beg me for it. I want you to say my name. I want the neighbors to complain.”

“Cheeky,” Carra said, more of a gurgle than anything else as he pawed at Gary’s chest. “Then they’ll all know you’ve got a Scouser in here. What’ll that do to your reputation.”

“I don’t care if they know. I don’t care who knows.” Gary very nearly growled, hands on Carra’s hips to steady himself, or maybe the both of them. “I’m hopelessly in love with you, you scouse twat. Can’t you see that?”

Carra wanted to laugh, but it very suddenly it didn't seem funny anymore. This strange seriousness passed over them, this sort of understanding that he’d never felt before, not with anyone. It made him feel weak, not nervous, just weak. But he wasn’t afraid at all. If anything it was like he had a newfound sense of calm and renewal. He was in love. He was actually in love. Forget everything else, sod it. He was fucking in love with Gary Neville.

“C’mere, then, you Manc cunt. I want you to fuck the shit out of me.”

Gary groaned, annoyed and turned on. “Jesus. That’s so romantic, Jamie. Really.”

Carra smiled at him, bright and toothy, and he leaned in to put his lips to Gary’s bruise. “Do it lovingly, then. Because I love you and I want your dick in me now. And that’s as close to begging as you’ll get from me, you tosser.”

Gary might have gasped, it was hard to tell with the water going, but he seemed keen on it, which had Carra smiling even more. Before he could think about it really, he’d dropped to his knees in the ceramic basin, eyes closed from the water as he placed teasing kisses on Gary’s thighs, then boldly took Gary’s dick into his mouth. He started out slowly, not shy, but deliberate, taking as much time as he cared to while testing the metaphorical waters. It was like a puzzle, he desperately wanted to figure him out, see what he could do to unmake Gary and then put him back together again, and he’d used every trick he could think of if it would make Gary feel good.

Gary gasped for sure that time, staring down at Carra like he was some sort of work of art. “You want me to fuck you or not? ‘Cause I’m…”

Carra rocked back on his heels, looking far too smug for his own good. “Come in my mouth now and I’ll smack you. Unless you’ve changed your—”

“Shut up,” Gary sniffed, patting Carra’s cheek before disappearing briefly, only to return with a condom, which Carra watched him roll on with a sort of giddy anticipation. “You got the lube?”

Carra nodded, standing up again, stepping past Gary and out of the direct stream of water so he could pour some of the lube onto his fingers and get himself ready. Gary took the bottle then, working some of it over his erection. 

“You fucking go easy on me, you hear,” Carra chided him, carelessly tugging on his own cock for a moment. “Last time I—”

“Relax, love,” Gary gave him a look, both reassuring and devious in a way and turned Carra around so that he was facing the slick tiled wall. Carra shivered, cold from the lack of hot water, nervous for what was to come as Gary’s hand glided down his back to his arse. He tried to relax, tried not to tense up as Gary pressed a finger in. “Eh?”

“’S okay,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the wall. “Just go slow. Fucker.”

A low grunt as the reply. Before he could say more, Gary’d pushed a second finger inside, and Carra was holding his breath.

“Breathe, Jamie.”

“I am breathing.”

“Relax, then. Can’t fuck you when you’re all wound up.”

“I’m not.” But he was, he knew. So he drew in some deep breaths, in and out, then reached behind himself to take hold of Gary’s cock and guide it toward his arse. Heart racing, he glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of Gary. His pupils were so dilated, his eyes were nearly black, and somehow he looked even more nervous than Carra did. “Come on. Put it in, then.”

Gary nodded, pressing ahead, but letting Carra guide him, letting him ease back against him, slowly, so slowly, until Carra let out a sharp, stifled noise. “Is it alright? You okay?”

“Fucking fine. Oh shit,” Carra muttered, pressing against Gary experimentally. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cock up his arse. Years. Fucking years, and he’d been too young, too scared, and honestly too fucking wasted to properly enjoy it. And now, here he was, older and wiser and stone cold sober, letting a Manc bend him over in a shower. My, how times had changed in the life of Jamie Carragher. “Move your hips, bastard. Thought you wanted to make me scream.”

Gary laughed, gripping his hips and pulling him back a step or two, so that Carra was about an arm’s length away from the shower wall. “I want you to scream because you like it, love, not because you can’t handle it.”

“I’m handling it just fine,” Carra started, words choked into a moan as Gary started to move, thrusting into him. “F-fuck…”

Gary didn’t say much, but he did make some rather appealing sounds, one hand on Carra’s hip to keep him in place, the other on his back, urging him to bend over slightly, changing the angle just so. “Jamie,” he said, like a plea, quiet and almost lost under the sound of the water.

For whatever reason, that drove Carra wild, hearing his own name said with such utter need. No one had ever said his name like that, no one, not ever, not even Stevie back when they’d fooled around a bit. And it didn't matter to him, honestly, if no one else ever said his name like that again, because Gary’d said it. Forget everyone else, forget the world, forget the stupid dalliances he’d had in his youth. None of that mattered because Gary, his fucking Manc, he was saying his name, fucking him hard, fucking the shit out of him in the most loving fucking way anyone could ever be fucked. Nothing else mattered except that and them. 

“Fuck me,” he commanded, standing up straight, reaching back to grab the back of Gary’s head to pull him closer, close enough to kiss. And he did kiss him. It was rough, lots of biting, animalistic, needy, and exactly what Carra needed, just what he craved as Gary thrust into him, as their wet skin slapped together. He reached down for his own dick, pumping it frantically while Gary fucked him and bit into his neck and made the most bloody erotic sounds he’d ever heard in his life. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice, didn’t recognize his own words as he cried out, again and again, “Fuck me, fuck me, Gary, fuck, I need it, love it, fuck me…”

“Louder,” Gary said, purposely slowing his pace to an arduous grind. Carra hissed in response, glaring over his shoulder at him. “Beg me for it.”

“Twat,” Carra growled, moving his hips to wrest back a bit of control, silently coaxing Gary to pick up the pace and slam into him harder. “Like that, don’t stop. I gotta come, okay? Fuck me, Gary… just let me come, okay?”

“Okay,” Gary whispered, both hands firmly on Carra’s hips again as he thrust into him while Carra pumped his dick furiously. Gary surprised him then, reaching around, not to grab his cock but to massage his balls. It was almost enough to send Carra over the edge right then. The water was getting cold, but neither of them seemed to notice, both men grunting and groaning and on the edge of splintering apart. 

Carra came first, so hard it was like seeing stars, shooting his come in long spurts against the wet tile wall, with Gary’s hand moving along his cock, pumping it for him as he rode the last waves of his orgasm. Gary’s breath felt hot on the back of his neck and he relaxed back against him, letting out a contented, exhausted noise.

“Come on, Gary. Fuck me. I’ll scream for you now. I’ll beg for it.” Gary laughed against his skin but obeyed him, bending Carra at the waist again so he could find the angle he liked. And Carra complied, pliant and desperate to make Gary say his name again and make him come. “Fuck me, Manc bastard, I need it, fuck me, Gary, I need it.”

Gary was so close to falling to pieces, Carra could tell from how he was starting to slow, from the way his grip changed and his whole body seemed to tighten up. Carra wished he could see him better, wished they were fucking in bed so he could watch Gary’s face as he came undone, commit every movement, every part of him to memory. He wanted to gaze into the eyes of the man he loved as they came together, to kiss the lines on his face and whisper bullshite little endearments to him, to say things he’d never even thought about anyone else. Fuck all, he was in so deep for this fella. Whoever would’ve thought.

“Jamie…” Gary whimpered, breaking the spell only long enough for him to come. He tensed him, groaning as his orgasm hit, pulling out slowly once he was done. Carra stood up straight, popping his back into place while Gary removed the condom and tied it up. 

And then they just sort of stood there for a long moment, cold water spraying down over both of them, and they just looked at each other. And Carra realized he had nothing to say, really. All he wanted to do was kiss that man. So he did. He launched himself off the wall and threw his arms around Gary and held him tight, kissing his mouth with the kind of tenderness he’d only ever felt for Gary. And Gary held him too and kissed him, and it didn’t really matter that the water had turned freezing or that they were both shivering from the cold, because it felt so warm in his arms.

“You fucked me like you love me,” Carra said, voice so soft and low, he could see Gary squinting, trying to make it out. When he finally did, he laughed.

“Maybe I do, you wanker,” Gary chuckled, tracing his thumb along Carra’s cheekbone.

“Next time, let me have a go, yeah?”

“Yeah? Okay.”

“Yeah. Next time, I’ll fuck you like I love you too.” He smirked, kissing the hickey on Gary’s throat again. “Make you beg for it. Make you scream my name.”

“I already screamed your name, Jamie.”

Carra’s heart fluttered, just a little. “You could’ve been louder. I reckon the neighbors are fast asleep.”

“Next time, you fuck me in bed and I’ll be as loud as you like. Fair?”

“Mmhm,” Carra laughed. Then Gary turned off the tap.

*

Pepe found him out by Xabi’s smoking spot. It was late afternoon and he’d been hiding for a bit, paperwork finished, hopeful that there’d be no other surprises for him to look into. Besides, he couldn’t properly focus on anything that wasn’t Gary Neville. His head wasn't in the game, so to speak, and he knew it. He just wasn't ready to face it all quite yet.

“I’ve been looking for you for an hour,” Pepe scolded, pocketing his mobile. “You don't know how to answer your phone?”

“Sorry, I was just…”

“If you’ve started smoking, I’m going to sock you. That Alonso is a terrible influence on you, Carra.”

“Not smoking, just thinking.”

Pepe gave him a paternal look as he dropped down on the step beside him. “About what? Costa? Or…?”

“No, not Costa. About him. About Gary.”

Pepe sighed, putting an arm around Carra’s shoulders. “You’ve got to get it together, brother. I know you like the guy, but—”

“I’m in love with him.”

“You’re in love with him, then. Good on you, Carra. I’m very happy for you, I swear that I am.”

Carra could feel it. The other shoe was about to drop. “But?”

“But you’re my partner and I need you to focus on being my partner so we can put this case to bed. We’ve got work to do, man. I can’t be worried about whether or not you’ll show up and do your job, and I can’t be worried that you’ll spend your time pining after some Manc cunt.”

“You can’t call him that,” Carra protested sharply.

“Of course I can. That’s what he is.” Pepe looked him dead in the eyes, more serious than Carra could remember him being in a long time. “And you’re acting like a stupid lovesick cunt, Carra. I’m glad that you’re in love. I want you to be in love. But I need you to be here for me, too.”

Carra felt himself flinching under the weight of Pepe’s stare, nodding by instinct before he could really process the words. He needed to be better. He needed to do better. It wasn’t that he was a bad cop. He wasn’t corrupt, he had a stellar disciplinary record, he was reliable, he’d been given awards, etc. He wasn’t a bad cop. But in the last two weeks he hadn’t exactly been a good cop either. He needed to fix that, and fast, and not just for the sake of his partner. The community needed him. And he needed to be the hero again, for himself.

“I’ll do better,” he said, quiet as he could, and beside him, Pepe squeezed his shoulders. 

“I know you will. Now help me finish this shit so we can go home. We’re not even assigned to this fucker and we’ve still got so much paperwork I feel like my eyes are going to fall out of their sockets.”

Carra scoffed a little, but he knew what he had to do. So back to work they went.

*

After the paperwork was finished, Carra finally went home to feed his goldfish. As he kicked off his shoes, he considered if he’d want to join the lads for a few rounds of FIFA, but when the timer went off for his frozen dinner, he changed his mind and he called Gary instead.

It was late, they couldn’t talk for long, but there’d been some important developments in Manchester. Cesc had agreed to turn Queen’s evidence in exchange for full immunity, which Gary was glad about (annoying and handsy as he was.) Coloccini too had agreed to confess to his role in the crime ring in order to aid in the prosecution of Diego Costa. Everything was falling into order, and while Gary was a bit miffed at having been taken off the case due to a potential conflict of interests, he was more than happy to see justice being served.

“And that’s what’s important, right? Maybe you don’t get to play in a final, but if your team wins… what’s it matter, right? You still win.”

“Eh…” Carra wasn’t so sure about that.

They’d laughed, flirted, even engaged in some talk that skirted around the edge of being dirty (it was a work night though, and as professionals, they needed their beauty sleep.) And when Carra invited Gary to Xabi’s party, he accepted, with the plans being made that he’d stay Friday night over at Carra’s. Which meant Carra would need to clean the place up a bit, and also try to get through five days without seeing Gary. On the upside, he at least had some vivid wank material in mind to hold him over until then.

*

The week dragged on, with all the expected sorts of work to be done. The entire department was busy preparing for the Costa-Coloccini case, and Gary had to do his share. He wasn’t mad about it and he did his job, but he let his mind wander every so often, back to glimpses of the past weekend and to fantasies of the weekend to come. It had been ages since he’d been to Liverpool for any reason besides visiting his brother… who still hadn’t actually left him any messages, despite the numerous missed calls from the week before. Huh.

And so it came to be Friday night and he found himself with Jamie at some swank Spanish restaurant, in a back room filled to the brim with Liverpudlian police officers and other strangers, and while he wasn’t nervous per se, he didn’t exactly feel at home. Not unwelcome, just sort of… an oddity. There was beer though, and fizzy wine, and once that went around everyone seemed to relax and laugh and celebrate more, and even as Jamie left their table to catch up with somebody else, Gary at least felt like he could hold his own. Confidence had never been the issue, but facing down a defendant was a bit different from facing down a party room brimming with Scousers.

Jamie’d given him a primer on who was who and Gary found it easier to track the conversations and dynamics as the night wore on, and at a certain point the birthday boy himself materialized in Jamie’s vacated seat beside him.

“Are you enjoying the party?” Xabi asked, setting his wine glass down.

“Yes, sure. It’s very nice.” Gary smiled politely. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Xabi gave a quick smile, “It is important that you be here.”

Gary furrowed his brows, “How do you mean?”

“It is important for Carra. He’s been unhappy and alone for so long.” 

Gary stared at Xabi, unsure what to say until he finally laughed, “Right. No pressure then.”

Xabi laughed too as he stood up from the table. “No pressure. You two are good for each other, I think.”

Gary thought about protesting that Xabi hardly knew him at all and therefor couldn't wisely pass judgement on him and Jamie, but before he could, Xabi’d evaporated into the crowd and he was left all alone.

*

“Fuck,” Stevie whined, pacing around the coat closet. He looked a wreck, like he might actually tear his hair out. 

“Calm down,” Carra said, taking hold of his shoulders, forcing him to stop. “What’re you so worked up about? He knows you’re gonna ask him.”

Stevie looked at him, horrified, “How’s he know? Did you tell him?”

“He knows because he knows you, mate. And because it was his idea to get married. Xabi is a lot of things, but you can’t say he’s not an observant little twat.”

Stevie sighed and nodded, sinking against the wall of winter coats. He still seemed on edge, practically to the point of wringing his hands. Beside him Carra just rolled his eyes.

“What if he says no?”

“He’s not going to say no. Don’t be so fucking daft. It was his idea. He wants to marry you, God help him.”

Stevie opened his mouth to refute that, only to be interrupted by the appearance of Pepe, along with a stranger.

“You done making out in here?” Pepe said, eyes twinkling mischievously. “The party planner’s here with the cake and stuff. Where do you want us to put it?”

Stevie spluttered out of his momentary maudlin state and started chattering away with the pair of them about where to put the cake, when to serve the champagne, and so on. And all the while Carra stared at the fella, the party planner, and thought that he looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

*

The proposal itself went off without a hitch. The waitstaff wheeled in a cart with the massive tiered birthday cake and everybody sang and when that was done, Stevie got down on his knee and popped the question, and Xabi said ‘of course’ and everyone cheered. It was sweet, saccharine sweet, and surprisingly romantic. Despite hardly knowing them at all, Gary was happy for them, and happier still with Jamie’s hand resting on his knee as they ate their dessert.

That all shattered though when he caught sight of an all too familiar face across the room. Eyes wide, a look of horror about him, he clamped his hand around Jamie’s wrist.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, almost choking on his cake.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asked, looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“My brother… my brother is here. What the hell?”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed and he scanned the room, looking to where Gary was staring. Gary was already on his feet though, squeezing past the other attendees until he was face to face with Phil, who seemed equally shocked to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Gary asked, incredulous, accusing.

“I’m working, Gaz. Jesus.” Phil shook his head and the brothers quickly embraced. “What the are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” he said sparing a quick glance back at Jamie, who was headed their way.

Phil’s expression changed then, a look of understanding about him. “You’re with him. Oh my God, Gaz. I can’t believe you.”

Gary scowled, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean I can’t believe you two are serious,” Phil shrugged. “I mean, meeting on Xbox and everything.”

“What are you going on about?” Gary stared at his brother, utterly perplexed. “We didn’t meet on Xbox. We met through work.” 

Phil laughed sharply, just as Jamie appeared at Gary’s side. “That’s what you think.” He looked to Jamie, grinning like a fox. “Hey, it’s nice to finally meet you in person. I’m Phil.”

“Jamie,” he said as they shook hands.

“Yes, I know. ForeverRed23, in the flesh.” Both Gary and Jamie froze up, blinking stupidly. Phil’s laughter was bright, mirthful, and fully amused. “Come on, don’t tell me you two didn’t know.”

The look on Jamie’s face was priceless. The look on Gary’s face was more so. Phil cackled. 

“How do you…?” Jamie asked, still not getting it.

“Mate,” Phil said, slinging his arms around both of them. “Don’t tell me you can’t recognize my voice. It’s me, fizzer18.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Oh my God.”

Phil continued, “And this dumb arse is the venerable CowUdder46. And you two daft idiots have been playing Xbox together and shagging in the meantime and I can’t believe you didn’t catch on.”

Gary stammered, the implications of what his brother was saying hitting him hard. He turned to Jamie, who had just about the same look on his face. “That was you this whole time?”

“I was about to say the same thing,” Jamie said, flustered.

“I tried to tell you,” Phil said, quite pleased by the revelation. “But you never got back online, Jamie. And you, you dick, you never returned my calls. I tried five times, you know. What kind of a brother doesn’t at least ring back?”

Gary sloughed Phil’s arm off and leveled him with a fitting glare. “You could’ve left a message. Something important like this—”

Phil beamed, unfazed, “Does it matter? You’re happy now, aren’t you? What if I’d meddled? What then? Does it change anything, really?”

“No,” Gary said.

“See?” Phil smirked. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to cue the music. My client has specified that there be dancing after the refreshments and I don’t trust the waiters to set it up properly.”

And just like that, Phil was gone.

“I can’t believe this,” Jamie said. “This whole time we’ve been playing Xbox together and it never even occurred…”

“Why would it?” Gary asked. “I didn't even know you had an Xbox.”

“Yeah, well. It didn't seem like something to brag about on a first date.” Jamie shifted nervously, then extended his hand to Gary. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I think the champagne is giving me a headache.”

*

They sat on a bench outside the restaurant, taking in the cool November air, sitting silently beside each other for a few minutes as people strolled past, enjoying the clear calm of the evening. It was chilly enough that they might both excuse their trembling for just being cold, but they knew better. It was nerves, it was surprise, it was… probably also the wine.

“Remember all those spats we’d get into? Every time we’d play, you’d go off,” Gary said, breaking the silence. “Remember… what was it you said?”

“Something about anyone who supports Man United being unworthy of the term human being?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah.” Carra laughed then, in spite of himself. “I mean, clearly there are exceptions.”

“Clearly.”

“I think you’re a bloody amazing person, even though I think your taste in football is absolute rubbish.”

“Likewise, Jamie. Somethings just can’t be helped, I suppose.” Gary turned to look at him then. Carra could see the faintest smile on his lips and he wanted very much to kiss him. So he leaned in, and just before their mouths could meet, Gary continued speaking. “We’ll win the league this year, mate. Best club in England. Best club in Europe.”

“Oh my God,” Jamie groaned, pulling back, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking, wanting to kiss that mouth.”

“You were thinking you’re in love with me, is what you were thinking.” Gary looked insufferably smug as he snuck his arm around Carra’s waist. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Carra repeated, relaxing against him. “I suppose I wasn’t. Falling in bed with a Manc. Falling in love with one. Shite. How many times have your lads won the Champions League, by the way?”

“Shut it,” Gary said, leaning in to kiss him. “Scouse bastard.”

Carra laughed, roughly pulling him close, nuzzling his neck. “Come on, love. Let’s go home. I wanna thrash you at Xbox and then I wanna hear you scream my name.”

Gary laughed, “I’m not gonna scream your name over an Xbox match, Jamie.”

“Separate events, Gary. First, Liverpool FC decimates and dismantles Manchester United,” he snickered, biting Gary’s earlobe. “And then I’ll take you to bed, and we’ll actually wake up the neighbors this time.”

Gary was shivering again, but perhaps not from the cold as he took Carra by the chin and urged their lips together. “Challenge accepted, mate.”

**Author's Note:**

> and that's it... for now anyway. this AU has gotten out of hand. i have so many ideas and plans on how to expand it, now i need only decide which sequel to write next. there's definitely a sequel featuring the mysterious xXsuckXxitxXspursXx in the works.
> 
> kun's set list can be found [here]().
> 
> oh and:  
> the song that plays during the climactic battle is: [california dreaming](https://youtu.be/K48ubbr9QE4) by colorado. just let that image settle in for a moment.
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed it! please let me know! and if you haven't hit me up on tumblr, please [come say hi](http://gutilicious.tumblr.com/)!


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